“Willoughby.”
“Willoughby!” gasped Bérard, halting in amazement. “Then he has tracked us! He must be silenced.”
“Don’t act rashly,” remarked Valérie coolly. “You forget there’s a bond between us that renders it extremely undesirable that he should divulge anything. For the present, at least, we are quite safe. I’ve effected a compromise with him which is just as binding on one side as on the other. After all, when everything is considered, our prospects have never been rosier than they are at this moment.”
“But Willoughby. He can ruin us if he chooses. He knows of the affair at Carqueiranne.”
“And what if he does? How could he prove who did it? If he knew, don’t you think he would have had the reward long ago?” she argued.
“Has he seen Trethowen?”
“No; if he had, the circumstances might be different,” she replied coolly.
“Keep them apart. They must not meet, for reasons you well understand,” he said significantly; for, truth to tell, he feared the captain more than he did his Satanic Majesty himself.
“Of course, a recognition would be decidedly awkward,” she admitted; “but they are not likely to see one another—at least, not yet. Up to the present my diplomacy has proved effectual. With regard to the ugly incidents which you mentioned, have I not coerced Jack Egerton into silence, and my husband, he is—”
“Here, by your side, dearest,” a voice added, finishing the sentence.