“Madame does not know how to get more money for you.”
“Well,” said Adair, listening intently.
“Mrs. Lygon has not got much.”
“Go on, girl.”
“But,” said Henderson, “they agreed that the money must be raised in some way.”
“Sensible and practical women.”
“They mentioned various plans for raising it, but none of them seemed to suit, for reasons which I could not well make out. But there was one way which they seemed to agree would do if some things could be got at which they called—I did not know the name, and I wrote it down afterwards—”
“Good girl.”
She took a scrap of paper from her pocket, and glancing at a pencilled word, said,
“Yes; do you know what coupons are?”
“Most certainly.”
“Well then, they are to be got at, and as I made out, they are to be handed to somebody who will pay money for them. And this is to be given to you.”
“With any conditions, did you hear?”
“Oh yes. You are to be asked to live in London.”
“Unheard-of cruelty. You are sure of that?”
“Yes, I suppose—indeed, Madame said something about gambling, and I suppose that they want you to be out of the way of it.”
“There being no gambling in London. That is very thoughtful and provident of the dear ladies.”
“I do not think that it was out of any kindness to you, but because it is wished to put you out of the way of people who cheat you and send you to worry Madame.”
“Did they say that?” said Adair, and a flush of anger for once showed itself on the pale features. He could bear all the abject humiliation of his position, all the self-contempt, even the taunts of such persons as Henderson and his other tools, but he was wretched at being described as a dupe of cleverer scoundrels. “They said I was cheated?”
“Yes,” said the girl, with woman’s quickness, perceiving that she had managed to sting him. “Mrs. Lygon laughed at the idea of your being any match for the Frenchmen, and said that it was hard that money, got with so much difficulty, should be lost clumsily.”
“You are lying,” said Ernest Adair, quickly.
“You had better listen for yourself, if you doubt me,” replied Henderson, with a touch of her natural petulance. “I beg your pardon, but indeed I am telling you the very words.”
“It may be so. It had better be so. Well, and in case I do not choose to live in London, what do they propose?”
“Nothing was said about that, and I suppose they think that you are in such a desperate condition that you must accept the money.”
“Ah! I have impressed that pleasant belief on them, then? And who is to obtain these coupons?”
“Madame.”
“And the other lady is to use them?”
“I think so.”
Adair turned round upon her, and gazed in her face for some moments. Her eyes met his steadily for the first few seconds, and then she dropped them from before his fixed look, and said:
“I have angered you, and learned some of your secrets, but it was not my fault; you put me on the business.”
“You have not angered me in the least, I assure you,” was his reply. “On the contrary, you bring me very good news, and you shall not fail to have your reward when I receive mine. By the way, I suppose that we shall both have to wait some little time.”
“Madame was urgent about making haste.”
“And the other was not.”
“She is so calm and reserved, I can hardly make her out.”
“How did the conversation end?”
“Madame was to get the—the—things as soon as she could.”
“How you forget the word, although you took the pains to write it down, which so fixes a thing in the memory. Are you sure that you have the right word?”
“Quite right, quite right.”
“Look again.”
“I know I am right.”
“Look again, I say.”
Somewhat more slowly than seemed natural, Henderson took the paper from her pocket, glanced at it again, and was about to replace it.
“Yes, I said so, coupons.”
He snatched her wrist, and though her hand closed on the paper, he forced open her fingers and took the paper.
“How absurd you are,” he said. “Where my interests are so much concerned, is it strange that I should desire to be rightly informed? Are you ashamed of my seeing your way of spelling a French word—and has not Silvain completed your education?”
He looked at the paper as he spoke.
“Yes, you were quite correct,” he said, gently, “quite.”
She rubbed her wrist, with an expression of pain, and the tears came to her eyes.
“What, was I rough? Nay, I cannot have hurt you. I should never forgive myself. There, there, don’t be angry. You have done your mission admirably, and I repeat to you, you shall not lose your reward. Well, I need not detain you. I will send for you when I want you again. Take that napoleon, and buy a ribbon for the pretty wrist I have so ill treated. And do not expose me to the wrath of Monsieur Silvain.”
He pressed the coin into her hand, and opening the door, rather urged her departure—she this time seeming inclined to linger.
When she had gone, he fastened the door, and examined the scrap of paper carefully.
“That is not the scrawl of a lady’s-maid,” he said.
Then from an inner pocket he took out two or three letters and compared their writing with that on the paper he had seized.
“Time has passed,” he said, “and hands alter.
