“You are right. If De Nérac meets the Chevalier at the inn he may know more,” was the calm response. She had begun to take off her jewels and was packing them one by one into a leather case.
“What do you mean?”
“This. The game is up for you, my friend, and for me. There will be no more richly paid treachery for some time in our lives. The Chevalier loves me, loves me as his own soul. To save me he will probably betray what De Nérac does not already know——”
Onslow had risen. He buttoned up his coat over the despatch, while his eyes glowed with the unholy lust that was corroding his mind and body.
“And,” she continued, “the Chevalier knows that I love him, love him more dearly than any man. I shall be grateful to his love if it saves him and saves me, as I think it will. But it cannot save you, I fear.”
“Ah!” his breath came quick. His eyes went round and round like those of a beast tracked by dogs to its lair.
“Yes, I hope he will confess all.” She faced him. “I tell you now that he went to the inn to confess all—all.”
“Then,” Onslow answered in a thick voice of brutal exultation, “he will not do it. He is dead, your Chevalier, your lover—dead.”
She suppressed the cry of horror, of agony, that was wrung from her. But her great blue eyes fixed on him. “You killed him?” she asked in a whisper.
“I did.”