“Liane! At last!”
She turned quickly with a start, and next instant found herself face to face with George Stratfield.
“You, George!” she gasped, her face blanching.
“Yes, darling,” he answered. “I called at your address at Nice, but they told me you had come over here, so I followed. But what’s the matter?” he asked, in consternation. “You are not well. How white you look! Tell me what is worrying you?”
“Nothing,” she answered, with a forced laugh. “Nothing whatever, I assure you. I—I wasn’t aware that I looked at all pale. Your sudden appearance startled me.”
But George regarded her with suspicion. He knew from the look of intense anxiety upon her fair countenance that she was concealing the truth.
“Is the Captain with you?” he inquired after an awkward pause.
“Yes, he is inside,” she answered. “But why have you come here?”
“To see you, Liane,” he said, earnestly. “I could no longer bear to be parted from you, so one night I resolved to run out and spend a week or so in Nice, and here I am.”
Her face had assumed a strange, perplexed look. He knew nothing of Zertho’s existence, for loving him so well she had hesitated day by day to write and tell him the hideous truth. She saw that he must now know all.