“You!” she cried, glaring at me strangely. “You were here—to-day?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I thought she would certainly tell you of my visit.”
“She told me nothing. I was quite unaware of it. I was out, and the servants told me that a gentlemen had called in my absence.”
“I gave a card,” I replied. “It is no doubt in the hall.”
“No, it is not. It has been destroyed.”
“Why?” I asked.
“For some mysterious reason known to Yolande.” Then, turning quickly again to me, she placed her hand upon my arm in deep earnestness, saying: “Tell me, is your love for her absolutely and entirely dead—so dead that you would not care to perform her a service?”
Anderson’s strange and startling story flashed through my mind. I made no reply.
“Remember the affection you once bore her,” she urged. “I am a woman, m’sieur, and I presume to remind you of it.”
I needed no reminder. The recollection of those sweet idyllic days was still fresh as ever in my memory. Ah! in those brief sunny hours I had fondly believed that our love would last always. It is ever the same. Youth is ever foolish.