“She was—you will forgive the question—alone?”
“Terribly alone.”
“And you came upon her in the Casino, I suppose?”
Diana seemed to be upon the point of saying “Yes”; but she reflected for a moment and then answered:
“No. Let me see! It certainly wasn’t in the Casino. I think that it was upon the golf links. She had some lodging in the cheaper part of the town, and I asked her to stay with me and then brought her on here.”
“Mademoiselle, that was generous,” Hanaud observed with a little bow. “Now you shall tell me about your real friend, the American, Joyce Whipple.”
Diana Tasborough threw up her hands in a gesture of despondency.
“It is curious, Monsieur Hanaud, but I know much less about my real friend than I do about my acquaintance. That she and her sister are alone in the world, that they came over from America two years ago, that they have an oil-well on their land in California, that the sister married recently and returned to America—the whole world knows as much as I do. Joyce was always very reticent about herself—even to me. She was full of enthusiasm for the things she was doing and seeing over here, and the people whom she met. But about herself and her home, you couldn’t get her to talk of them.”
“Yes, that is curious,” Hanaud agreed, but he did not press Diana with any more questions. He rose from his chair and spoke gratefully. “I must thank you, mademoiselle. What you have told me will be of the greatest help. I make a little recommendation to you in return. Telegrams must be sent both to America and to this inexorable Monsieur Blackett”—he broke off from his recommendation to interject—“Do you know, I have a great sympathy with that stern man? All that devotion, foolish no doubt but frank, and for reward first the treachery, then this miserable end. It will be right that he should hear the bad news from you, before the newspapers tell it to him. It is the only bright spot, eh? that at Suvlac we are far from the newspapers. I recommend, therefore, that mademoiselle put herself into her car and drive to Pauillac or whatever telegraph office is nearest, and send off the messages herself. It will give mademoiselle something to do.”
Diana looked at him with unbelieving eyes. Then a light shone in her eyes and the blood rushed in a torrent into her face.
“Ah, you are happy that I ask you to go upon this errand,” Hanaud observed with a smile.
“Happy—no. Glad—yes—immensely glad,” she answered in a sort of eager confusion. “To sit here useless on this terrace watching the Gironde, and that sentinel by the flowerbed, with one’s hands idle and one’s thoughts going round and round in a circle! Oh, terrible! Thank you! I’ll get my hat”; and she sprang up, restored to life and animation and ran off through the open window into the drawing-room.
Mr. Ricardo had strolled away to the edge of the terrace occupied with a little struggle of his own. He was quite aware of Diana’s dislike for and disdain of him, and was inclined to think the worse of her in consequence. On the other hand he was a susceptible person and her immense relief at being given something to do moved him. He was thus in two minds whether to warn Hanaud with some such subtle question as “Are you wise to let her go off without a gendarme in the car to take care of her,” or to congratulate him upon his delicate consideration. Mr. Ricardo’s higher nature, however, got the upper hand of him; and as Hanaud joined him, he said encouragingly:
“That was very thoughtful of you, my friend.”
“Yes, yes,” Hanaud answered. “It was very thoughtful of me.”
“The drive in the fresh air will do her a world of good.”
“Yes, yes, and we shall have the house to ourselves, and that will do us a world of good too,” said Hanaud with a grin.
Mr. Ricardo turned round with a start. So that was the aim which had prompted all this show of delicate feeling! But he said nothing in criticism of this duplicity. He stood on the contrary with his mouth open. For he was looking now into the drawing-room and he saw a man there talking to Diana. The man stood with his back to the long window and well within the shadow of the room, so that it was easy to mistake him. Mr. Ricardo, however, had not a shred of doubt.
“So after all, he is here,” he cried in a low voice.
“Who?” Hanaud asked, swinging round towards the window.
“Why, look! The examining judge, Monsieur Tidon.”
“Oh!” said Hanaud slowly in a dry voice. “So that is Monsieur Tidon, is it?” and at that moment the man turned round.
It was not the examining judge at all, but merely Mr. Robin Webster, the manager of the vineyard. He came to the window.
“Monsieur Hanaud, if you don’t want me I’ll drive with Miss Tasborough into Pauillac. The work at the vats can go on without me. There are overseers of experience. It is true that with my hand crippled like this,” and he glanced down at his arm supported in a sling, “I shall not be of much use for driving. But after the shock which Miss Tasborough had this morning, I’m not very easy about her driving herself alone. I want no more tragedies in the Château Suvlac.”
“I understand that very well, Monsieur Webster,” Hanaud replied. Nothing could have been more cordial and kindly than his manner. “By all means drive that young lady into Pauillac and help her with her telegrams. And for yourself. You will not think me guilty
