” It was nearly half an hour before they dared ask him the question. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. He dropped the key on the counterpane. She had not seen him in two and a half centuries. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. Her confession was still unmade. He bullied frankly. ‘Oh, mon dieu. And you’re as clean as fire. “Look here,” he cried out of a silence, with a sudden flash of understanding, “did you mean to throw me over when you came out with me this afternoon?” Ann Veronica hesitated, and with a startled mind realized the truth. He was—a millionaire. “Everything will follow,” she said.
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