“Impertinence!” he laughed. “Let me tell you both,” he said, “that you have to thank this lady,” he turned slightly to indicate the Baronne, “for being alive to-day. When I brought you here I intended that neither of you should ever again be heard of. Your disappearance would have made a stir, no doubt, but the stir would not have lasted; you would soon have been forgotten here. Dead men tell no tales. But the Baronne interfered.”
“I’m sure we feel deeply grateful,” I answered ironically. “One would think we were conspirators, or criminals, by the way you talk. So far as I’m aware, I never set eyes on you until last night in the Hotel de Paris.”
“Quite likely,” he replied, “but that is beside the point. You possess information you have no right to possess. You know the Thorolds’ secret, and until your lips are closed I shall not feel safe.” Ah! that remarkable secret again! What on earth could it be? That was the thought that flashed across my mind, but I merely answered—“You can’t suppose I shall reveal it?”
He smiled coldly.
“Not reveal it, man, when you know what is at stake! You must think me very confiding if you suppose I shall trust your bare assurance. As I have said, I intended to—to—well, to close both your mouths.”
“Why Faulkner’s,” I asked.
“Because he is to marry Gladys Deroxe, who is so friendly with Vera Thorold, who is to be my wife. Vera knows too much, and may have told her little friend what she knows. I mistrust Vera’s friends—even her friends’ friends. You understand?”
“At that rate,” I answered, growing reckless, “you will need to ‘remove’ a good many people.”
“That is possible. It is for that reason—”
“Oh, why talk so much!” the Baronne interrupted impatiently. “Tell him everything in a few words, and have done with it!”