“Didn’t you tell Miss Oliver?” asked her father.
“No; but I will. I went digging, and forgot all about it.”
“If I were you, Enid, I shouldn’t tell Miss Oliver,” her mother said, very quietly. “You were frightened for nothing. It was only a man who wanted money.”
“But he was such a nasty man—he had a horrid face, and such big, big eyes!” declared the child, and then, turning, she danced away out of the room, leaving Bracondale facing Jean in silence.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE INTRUDER.
That afternoon Jean remained in her room in a fierce fever of anxiety, while Bracondale drove his car along the winding, shady road to Yvetot, and home by St. Valery-en-Caux, and the sea-road which commences at Fécamp.
Did he suspect? she wondered.