“Ought I to tell you?” she asked rather piteously. “It’s betraying his confidence shamefully. I know I’m to blame. I ought never to have given him my promise. But I can’t see him go and ruin everything without making some sacrifice.”
“My dearest Marcelle, you’re talking in riddles. For Heaven’s sake give me the word of the enigma.”
“It’s Lady Edna Donnithorpe.”
“Well. What about her?”
“I wish he had never set eyes on the woman,” she cried passionately.
“If he’s in love with her, he’ll have to get over it,” said Baltazar. “France will cure him. And, as I told you the other evening, the lady’s perfectly callous. So my dear, go along and don’t worry.”
“You don’t seem to understand me, John dear,” she said urgently. “The woman is in love with him. It has been going on for months. He has told me all about it. She gets up and goes out driving with him in the car at eight o’clock in the morning.”
“Silly woman!” growled Baltazar.
“Silly or not, she wouldn’t do it if she didn’t care for him. Not Lady Edna Donnithorpe. They meet whenever they can. He comes to me and pours out everything. I ought to have told you. But I couldn’t break my word. They’re lovers——”
“Lovers? What do you mean?” he asked, bending his heavy brows.