“No,” he answered, turning quickly towards her. “For you.”
She held her breath; the colour fled from her cheeks. He lost no opportunity of reminding her of the terrible past, and as he glanced at her and watched the effect of his words he saw with satisfaction that he still held her in a thraldom of fear.
“I thought she had left France,” he continued, as if to himself. “I had no idea that she was still here. Fortune must have been kind to her of late.”
Liane said nothing. She had not failed to notice his anxiety when Mademoiselle Bertholet had explained how Mariette had watched him, and she wondered whether, after all, he feared this remarkable woman who had played such a prominent part in their past lives; this notorious gambler who was her bitterest foe.
She was already tired of Nice, and recognised that to remain longer was only to endanger herself. The Nemesis she had so long dreaded seemed to be closing upon her.
In the Boulevard Carabacel they took an open cab to drive home, but while crossing the Place opposite the Post Office they encountered George Stratfield walking. As he passed he raised his hat to Liane, and she greeted him with a smile of sadness.
Zertho noticed the young Englishman, and his bearded face grew dark.
“What! So your lover is also here!” he exclaimed in surprise, turning to catch another glance of the well set-up figure in light grey tweed. She had carefully concealed from him and from her father the fact that George had come to Nice.
“Yes,” she answered simply, looking straight before her.
“Why did you hide the truth from me?” he demanded angrily.