"As far as possible. . .I promise you."
"Remember, dear, I have only you. . .to. . .to care for me. . . .""Nay, sweet one, you have other interests now. Percy cares for you. . . ."A look of strange wistfulness crept into her eyes as she murmured,--"He did. . .once. . ."
"But surely. . ."
"There, there, dear, don't distress yourself on my account.
Percy is very good. . ."
"Nay!" he interrupted energetically, "I will distress myself on your account, my Margot. Listen, dear, I have not spoken of these things to you before; something always seemed to stop me when I wished to question you. But, somehow, I feel as if I could not go away and leave you now without asking you one question. . . . You need not answer it if you do not wish," he added, as he noted a sudden hard look, almost of apprehension, darting through her eyes.
"What is it?" she asked simply.
"Does Sir Percy Blakeney know that. . .I mean, does he know the part you played in the arrest of the Marquis de St. Cyr?"She laughed--a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous laugh, which was like a jarring chord in the music of her voice.
