“To your father—eh?” I asked, with a smile.
“Yes,” she answered, with a little hesitation.
“And how can you vouch for his honesty? Half a million francs is a great temptation, remember.”
“No, not so much—for him,” was her reply.
“Why?”
She looked straight into my face through the talc front of her motor-veil, and after a moment’s silence exclaimed, with a girl’s charming frankness—
“I wonder, Monsieur Ewart, whether I can trust you?”
“I hope so, mademoiselle,” was my reply. “Mr. Bellingham has entrusted you to my care, hasn’t he?”
I hoped she was about to confide in me, but all she said was—
“Well, then, the reason I am so certain of Monsieur Martin’s honesty is because—because I—I’m engaged to be married to him;” and she blushed deeply as she made the admission.