“Yes. She’s a hopeless idiot, Haynes tells me. She had developed homicidal mania as a result of the bullet wound in the head, and they have had to send her to a private asylum at Cannes. She’s there in close confinement.”
Dorise paused. Her anger had risen, and her cheeks were flushed. The sandwich she was eating choked her, so she cast it into the river.
Then she rose abruptly, and looking very straight into the man’s eyes, said:
“I consider, Mr. Sherrard, that you are absolutely horrid. Mr. Henfrey is a friend of mine, and whatever gossip there is concerning him I will not believe until I hear his story from his own lips.”
“I merely tell you of the report from France to Scotland Yard,” said Sherrard.
“You tell me this in order to prejudice me against Hugh—to—to——”
“Hugh! Whom you love—eh?” sneered Sherrard.
“Yes. I do love him,” the girl blurted forth. “I make no secret of it. And if you like you can tell my mother that! You are very fond of acting as her factotum!”
“It is to be regretted, Dorise, that you have fallen in love with a fellow who is wanted by the police,” he remarked with a sigh.
“At any rate, I love a genuine man,” she retorted with bitter sarcasm. “I know my mother’s intention is that I shall marry you. But I tell you here frankly—as I stand here—I would rather kill myself first!”