“What does this mean?” inquired Liane, eagerly.
“I cannot tell its meaning, dearest,” he answered. “I merely received a note, saying that you would call for me on your way to Monaco.”
“Have you no idea why she desires to see both of us?”
“None whatever,” he replied.
“You have found her,” she observed in a deep, earnest tone. “In my letter she says that you are her friend. You don’t know her true character, I suppose,” his well-beloved added, looking earnestly into his eyes. “If you did you would not visit her.”
“She lives in an air of the most severe respectability,” he said. “I dined at the Villa Fortunée the night before last, and found her an extremely pleasant hostess.”
She smiled. Then, while driving along the Avenue de la Gare to the station she told him of Mariette’s past in similar words to those used by Madame Bertholet. He sat listening eagerly, but a dark shadow crossed his features when, in conclusion, she added, “Such, unfortunately, is the woman who is to be bribed to marry you.”
They alighted, obtained their tickets, crossed the platform, and entered the rapide. It was crowded with people going to Monte Carlo, and the tunnels rendered the journey hot, dusty and unpleasant. Nevertheless the distance was not far, and when half-an-hour later they were ascending the steep winding way which led up to the rock of Monaco, Liane’s heart sank within her, for she feared that she was acting unwisely.
“It is very remarkable that Mariette should have written to us both in this manner,” George was saying as he strolled on beside the pale-faced graceful girl. “Evidently she desires to consult us upon some matter of urgency. Perhaps it concerns us both. Who knows?”
“It may,” she answered mechanically. “She is not, however, a person to trust. Women of her character have, alas! neither feeling nor honour.”