"He still believes in me, eh?" asked the man, thinking deeply, for his clever brain was already active to devise some means of escape from what appeared to be a distinctly awkward dilemma. He had never calculated the chances of Gabrielle's return to her father's side. He had believed that impossible.
"I understand that my husband will hear no word against you," replied the tall, fair-haired woman. "But when I speak he will listen, depend upon it."
"You dare!" he cried, turning upon her in threatening attitude. "You dare utter a single word against me, and, by Heaven! I'll tell what I know. The country shall ring with a scandal—the shame of your attitude towards the girl, and a crime for which you will be arraigned, with me, before an assize-court. Remember!"
The woman shrank from him. Her face had blanched. She saw that he was equally as determined as she was desperate. James Flockart always kept his threats. He was by no means a man to trifle with.
For a moment she was thoughtful, then she laughed defiantly in his face.
"Speak! Say what you will. But if you do, you suffer with me."
"You say that exposure is imminent," he remarked. "How did the girl manage to return to Glencardine?"
"With Walter's aid. He went down to Woodnewton. What passed between them
I have no idea. I only returned the day before yesterday from the South.
All I know is that the girl is back with her father, and that he knows
much more than he ought to know."
"Murie could not have assisted her," Flockart declared decisively. "The old man suspects him of taking those Russian papers from the safe."
"How do you know he hasn't cleared himself of the suspicion? He may have done. The old man dotes upon the girl."
"I know all that."