That right? I
thought so. It's the whole matter in a nutshell. I must have seen her
too, but never noticed her till my last night in the place. Then I found
Antonio hammering the poor little beggar out in the garden, and I stopped
it. You'd have done the same. Afterwards, late that night, I went on
board the yacht and found her down in the saloon--a stowaway. The yacht
had started. I could have put back. I didn't. You wouldn't have done
either. She took refuge with me. I sheltered her. She came to me as a
boy. I treated her as such."
"You knew?" flung in Bunny.
Saltash's grin flashed across his dark features like a meteor through a
cloudy sky and was gone. "I--suspected, _mon ami_. But--I did not even
tell myself." That part of him that was French--a species of volatile
sentimentality--sounded in the words like the echo of a laugh in a minor
key. "I made a valet of her. I suffered her to clean my boots and brush
my clothes. I kept her in order--with this--upon occasion."
He held up the switch he carried.
"I don't believe it," said Bunny bluntly.
Saltash's shoulders went up. "You please yourself, _mon cher_. I am
telling you the truth. I treated her like a puppy. I was kind to her, but
never extravagantly kind.
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