“Awkward. What did you say?”
“I made an excuse. One which, I hope, satisfied him.”
“Trust you, Jean, for a good excuse,” he laughed brutally.
Then, with a glance at the jewel-case on the table, he added: “But if I were you I’d be very wary. I suppose I did wrong in meeting you openly as I did. I ought to have been more circumspect. But, my girl, we need not have necessity to meet again, need we?”
“I hope not—for my sake,” was her reply, as she turned her pale face to his.
“If you play the game, I shall also do the same. So you needn’t fear. Only I must have an address where to write to you.”
“No,” she protested. “You must not write. It will be far too dangerous. And, besides, you made me a promise that if I gave you those,” and she glanced at the table, “you would give me back my letter, and go away, never to see me again.”
He regarded her in silence for a few moments, a sinister smile playing about his mobile lips. But he made no reply.
“Ah, Ralph,” she went on, “I—I can’t somehow trust you. When you have spent this money you will come back again. I know you will. Ah! you do not know all that this means to me.”
“Well, doesn’t it mean a lot to me—eh?”