Elizabeth, on her part, was sore perplexed.
Had she acted wisely? Was there any other course she could have pursued towards this man? In one respect she was now even more in his power than before. But she did not see how she could have done otherwise than tell him the truth—or, at least, some portion of the truth—in order to prevent his betraying her secret, if possible.
Meantime, Alaric, after working as long as the fading daylight would allow, had strolled into the hotel garden with his pipe, and was wandering up and down the narrow paths, spotted here and there with fallen oranges, and fragrant with their borders of violets, when his eyes lighted on two figures coming down the road above him, and as yet some distance off. He stood still, amazed. They approached the top of the steps. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Elizabeth Shaw, who had expressed such contempt for Melchior, was walking alone with him, and at parting gave him her hand. Had they met by a preconcerted plan? It really looked like it, for he knew Melchior had returned to Monte Carlo that morning. It was incredible that she liked this man; but what on earth could she have to say to him? Alaric had no right to inquire—no right to allude to what he had seen; he was neither of a jealous nor a suspicious temperament. To be suspicious of her—in whom he had now such absolute trust—to be jealous of him, a man whom he so despised, it was impossible. After all, it would probably be explained in a few words by Elizabeth. But he would not appear to be spying her steps, and did not go forward to join her.
