“I’m quite as ignorant of his whereabouts as yourself.”
“Then, I’ll put the question in another form. Why has Hugh Trethowen disappeared?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m convinced that you know where he is.”
“I do not. How should I?” he asked impatiently. “It is futile to prevaricate. If you are one of mademoiselle’s myrmidons, as you admit, you surely can form some idea why he has disappeared so mysteriously. Are you not aware that he is no longer living with her, and that all efforts to discover him have been in vain?”
“I—I really know nothing, and care less, about your lover,” he answered disdainfully. “Besides, why should you renew your friendship with him now he is married?”
His words maddened her. She had attacked her adversary with circumspection, but in her sudden ebullition of passionate indignation she gave vent to a flood of words, which, as soon as they were uttered, she regretted.
“I did not ask you to assist Hugh,” she cried. “I know he—like myself—has fallen a victim to the machinations of your hired assassins. But you refuse to tell me where I can find him, and speak of him as my lover. Even if we do love one another, what does it concern you? Would you preach to me of morals?” This last remark caused him to start, and he scowled at her ominously. “I warn you,” she said. “The day is not far distant when the whole mystery will be cleared up, and your villainy exposed.”
“Perhaps so,” he replied, with a forced laugh. “I’m sure I don’t care.”
“But you will, I fancy. You’ll be glad enough, when the time arrives, to fall upon your knees, as you did just now, and beg for mercy.”