“Yolande!” she gasped, in a choking voice.
“Yolande!” I echoed. “What has happened to her? Your man will tell me nothing.”
“He has orders to say nothing,” she explained, leading the way into the elegant salon. “Now tell me,” she said, looking at me very earnestly, “I am in sheer desperation, as you may see, or I would not presume to question you. Will you forgive me if I do?”
“Most certainly,” I responded.
“Then before we go further I will put my question to you,” she said in a strange voice. “Do you love Yolande?”
Such direct inquiry certainly took me by complete surprise. I stood looking at her for a few seconds absolutely open-mouthed.
“Why ask me that?” I inquired, puzzled. “Tell me what has happened to her.”
“I can tell you nothing until you have answered my question,” she replied quite calmly. I saw from her countenance that she was desperate.
“I think, madame, that when we were together in Brussels my actions must have betrayed to you—a woman—the state of my heart towards your daughter,” I said. “I do not seek to deny that at that time I loved her more fondly than I could ever love again, and—”
“Then you do not love her still?” she cried, interrupting me.