“Nothing. I’m sure of that!”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” was her mother’s response. “I was chatting about it to Mr. Sherrard last night, and he’s promised to make inquiry.”
“Let Mr. Sherrard inquire as much as he likes,” cried the girl angrily. “He’ll find nothing against Hugh, except that he’s poor.”
“H’m! And he’s been far too much in your company of late, Dorise. People were beginning to talk at Monte Carlo.”
“Oh! Let them talk, mother! I don’t care a scrap. I’m my own mistress!”
“Yes, but I tell you frankly that I’m very glad that we’ve seen the last of the fellow.”
“Mother! You are really horrid!” cried the girl, rising abruptly and leaving the table. When out of the room she burst into tears.
Poor girl, her heart was indeed full.
Now it happened that early on that same morning Hugh Henfrey stepped from a train which had brought him from Aix-la-Chapelle to the Gare du Nord, in Brussels. He had spent three weeks with the Raveccas, in Genoa, whence he had travelled to Milan and Bale, and on into Belgium by way of Germany.
From Lisette he had failed to elicit any further facts concerning his father’s death, though it was apparent that she knew something about it—something she dared not tell.