"Who knows!" exclaimed Walter. "Some secret exists between them. You told me that you suspected it long ago."
"And I do," she said, lowering her voice. "That man holds Sir Hugh in the hollow of his hand—of that I'm sure. I have noticed after each of the doctor's visits how pale and thoughtful he always is."
"Have you tried to learn the reason of it all?" inquired the novelist quietly, his gaze fixed upon her.
"I have," she replied, with slight hesitation.
Walter Fetherston contemplated in silence the fine cat's-eye and diamond ring upon his finger—a ring sent him long ago by an anonymous admirer of his books, which he had ever since worn as a mascot.
At one moment he held this girl in distinct suspicion; at the next, however, he realised her peril, and resolved to stand by her as her champion.
Did he really and honestly love her? He put that question to himself a thousand times. And for the thousandth time was he compelled to answer in the affirmative.
"By which route do you intend travelling to Italy to-morrow?" he asked.
"By Paris and Modane. We go first for a week to Nervi, on the coast beyond Genoa," was her reply.
Fetherston paused. If she put foot in France she would, he knew, be at once placed under arrest as an accomplice of Paul Le Pontois. When Weirmarsh took revenge he always did his work well. No doubt the French police were already at Calais awaiting her arrival.