that’s a thirty to forty horse-power. It belongs to me. But if your son really loves rushing hills, as you say, we have a hundred horse-power car which my father wants to get rid of. Wait; where’s the photograph of it, Sonia? It ought to be here somewhere.”
The two girls rose, went to a table set against the wall beyond the window, and began turning over the papers with which it was loaded in the search for the photograph. They had barely turned their backs, when the hand of young Charolais shot out as swiftly as the tongue of a lizard catching a fly, closed round the silver statuette on the top of the cabinet beside him, and flashed it into his jacket pocket.
Charolais was watching the two girls; one would have said that he had eyes for nothing else, yet, without moving a muscle of his face, set in its perpetual beaming smile, he hissed in an angry whisper, “Drop it, you idiot! Put it back!”
The young man scowled askance at him.
“Curse you! Put it back!” hissed Charolais.
The young man’s arm shot out with the same quickness, and the statuette stood in its place.
There was just the faintest sigh of relief from Charolais, as Germaine turned and came to him with the photograph in her hand. She gave it to him.
“Ah, here we are,” he said, putting on a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. “A hundred horse-power car. Well, well, this is something to talk over. What’s the least you’ll take for it?”
“I have nothing to do with this kind of thing,” cried Germaine. “You must see my father. He will be back from Rennes soon. Then you can settle the matter with him.”
M. Charolais rose, and said: “Very good. We will go now, and come back presently. I’m sorry to have intruded on you, young ladies—taking up your time like this—”
“Not at all—not at all,” murmured Germaine politely.
“Good-bye—good-bye,” said M. Charolais; and he and his son went to the door, and bowed themselves out.
“What creatures!” said Germaine, going to the window, as the door closed behind the two visitors. “All the same, if they do buy the hundred horse-power, papa will be awfully pleased. It is odd about that pane. I wonder how it happened. It’s odd too that Jacques hasn’t come back yet. He told me that he would be here between half-past four and five.”
“And the Du Buits have not come either,” said Sonia. “But it’s hardly five yet.”
“Yes; that’s so. The Du Buits have not come either. What on earth are you wasting your time for?” she added sharply, raising her voice. “Just finish addressing those letters while you’re waiting.”
“They’re nearly finished,” said Sonia.
“Nearly isn’t quite. Get on with them, can’t you!” snapped Germaine.
Sonia went back to the writing-table; just the slightest deepening of the faint pink roses in her cheeks marked her sense of Germaine’s rudeness. After three years as companion to Germaine Gournay-Martin, she was well inured to millionaire manners; they had almost lost the power to move her.
Germaine dropped into a chair for twenty seconds; then flung out of it.
“Ten minutes to five!” she cried. “Jacques is late. It’s the first time I’ve ever known him late.”
She went to the window, and looked across the wide stretch of meadow-land and woodland on which the chateau, set on the very crown of the ridge, looked down. The road, running with the irritating straightness of so many of the roads of France, was visible for a full three miles. It was empty.
“Perhaps the Duke went to the Chateau de Relzieres to see his cousin—though I fancy that at bottom the Duke does not care very much for the Baron de Relzieres. They always look as though they detested one another,” said Sonia, without raising her eyes from the letter she was addressing.
“You’ve noticed that, have you?” said Germaine. “Now, as far as Jacques is concerned—he’s—he’s so indifferent. None the less, when we were at the Relzieres on Thursday, I caught him quarrelling with Paul de Relzieres.”
“Quarrelling?” said Sonia sharply, with a sudden uneasiness in air and eyes and voice.
“Yes; quarrelling. And they said good-bye to one another in the oddest way.”
“But surely they shook hands?” said Sonia.
“Not a bit of it. They bowed as if each of them had swallowed a poker.”
“Why—then—then—” said Sonia, starting up with a frightened air; and her voice stuck in her throat.
“Then what?” said Germaine, a little startled by her panic-stricken face.
“The duel! Monsieur de Relzieres’ duel!” cried Sonia.
“What? You don’t think it was with Jacques?”
“I don’t know—but this quarrel—the Duke’s manner this morning—the Du Buits’ drive—” said Sonia.
“Of course—of course! It’s quite possible—in fact it’s certain!” cried Germaine.
“It’s horrible!” gasped Sonia. “Consider—just consider! Suppose something happened to him. Suppose the Duke—”
“It’s me the Duke’s fighting about!” cried Germaine proudly, with a little skipping jump of triumphant joy.
Sonia stared through her without seeing her. Her face was a dead white—fear had chilled the lustre from her skin; her breath panted through her parted lips; and her dilated eyes seemed to look on some dreadful picture.
Germaine pirouetted about the hall at the very height of triumph. To have a Duke fighting a duel about her was far beyond the wildest dreams of snobbishness. She chuckled again and again, and once she clapped her hands and laughed aloud.
“He’s fighting a swordsman of the first class—an invincible swordsman—you said so yourself,” Sonia muttered in a tone of anguish. “And there’s nothing to be done—nothing.”
She pressed her hands to her eyes as if to shut out a hideous vision.
Germaine did not hear her; she was staring at herself in a mirror, and bridling to her own image.
Sonia tottered to the window and stared down at the road along which must come the tidings of weal or irremediable woe. She kept passing her hand over her eyes as if to clear their vision.
Suddenly she started, and bent forward, rigid, all her being concentrated in the effort to see.
Then she cried: “Mademoiselle Germaine! Look! Look!”
“What is it?” said Germaine, coming to her side.
“A horseman! Look! There!” said Sonia, waving a hand towards the road.
“Yes; and isn’t he galloping!” said Germaine.
“It’s
