“What is that?” she asked.
“I shall see that he has the money. But it will come through a second party, not through me. I do not wish to appear to lend him money, otherwise he will still continue his speculations, feeling that he has me behind him. Now you know the truth, Dorothy. But you must promise me to say nothing. Nobody must know—not even my wife.”
“Oh! how very good of you to help Jack out of a hole!” she exclaimed. “Of course I’ll remain silent. But it really is awfully kind of you. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I will do it for your sake, Dorothy,” said De Gex, bending to her in confidence. “I am indebted to you—remember!”
“Ah! no!” cried the young woman, whose name apparently was Cullerton. “No! Please don’t refer to that terrible affair!”
Her voice betrayed emotion and apprehension, while at that moment, as she turned her face to the light of the moon, I was able to get a full view of it. It was that of a very beautiful young woman of about twenty-three, rather petite, with fair bobbed hair, regular features, and sweet lips. But the expression upon her countenance was one of fear and apprehension.
“I have no desire to remember it,” said her host. “We agreed at the time that it should be silence for silence. It was a bargain which we have kept ever since. You have married Jack Cullerton, and you are happy except that your husband is a born gambler. And of that he must be cured.”
“I know. I know!” she said hastily. “But earlier this evening you promised to tell me about Gabrielle. I must see her. She seems to have disappeared. Where is she?”
“In London, I believe.”
“In London! Yet the last time you spoke of her you said she was in Turin, on her way here, to Florence.”