A slow blush spread over the girl’s transparent features. She raised her head.
“It was no sacrifice,” she whispered. “It was my joy, my glory. I—I have always loved him so!”
Then suddenly her eyes flashed.
“If only we could write to him. If only we could get hold of him and tell him how broken you are. It was cruel of him not to leave us his address. Do you think we might inveigle it out of the chauffeur? What do you think, Aunt?”
“That would be a confession of failure,” answered the older woman. “Besides, you may be sure he was bound to secrecy. Now, leave me, Claire. I must be alone. I want to think. Take your dog and go out in the park. It will do you good. Perhaps, who knows, things aren’t as hopeless as they look?”
With a sudden return of her imperious manner, she waved Claire away. Heavy with dread, the girl put down Bébé, fastened the leash on to his bright collar and left the room.
The strange chauffeur was still waiting by the hall door. He seemed her only hope now. She approached him with trembling knees.
“If—if you will tell me where Mr. Petrovskey is I will make it worth your while,” she said with a pathetic assumption of firmness.
He stood up as she spoke. His nice blue eyes evaded hers apologetically.
“I’m sorry, miss, but my orders were not to say anything. If there is no answer I must be going.” He fidgeted, one hand on the door-knob.