“Rubbish, my dear,” snapped the Premier, “he is only a gentlemanly scoundrel—that is all.
“I wonder how long we shall be able to keep Hilden in ignorance of what is really the matter,” he continued. “The dear chap has behaved splendidly—did everything I asked him without a murmur, even to the extent of burglary this afternoon. By the way, he has got your diamonds back. He has just 'phoned me from Downing Street.”
“Oh, let them go! Let them go!” cried Lady Kathleen, with intense weariness. “Their presence seems only to make matters worse.”
Suddenly she threw herself into her father's arms.
“Oh, father, father!” she cried. “Let us do everything we can. Don't let us give up hope. We have still got a fortnight left in which to get that dreadful secret back. Don't let us give up hope. I would rather disguise myself and go out and search for it than have to endure what it means if we fail.”
“Don't cry, my dear. Don't cry. Believe me, I am doing everything I possibly can without giving anything away. But already it seems to me—perhaps I only imagine things—that the servants and people suspect that something is wrong.
“That is why we have got to be brave and look cheerful. I know it will be dreadful for you to have to look after the house party—and the people come to-morrow. Still, it cannot be helped. We have got to go through with it, but after the dance we will go back at once, and then I assure you that if it costs me my life I will make that Melun disgorge.”
Kathleen smiled at her father through her tears.
“You dear old fire-eater,” she said. “I really believe you would.”
“My daughter,” the Premier said, “there has never been a murderer in this family to my knowledge; but I swear to you that if I have to settle the scoundrel myself you shall not marry Melun. Heavens! The price of silence is too big altogether.”