“And so I’ve decided to give her a home—­that is,” he added, significantly, “if no one else will.”

“Do you mean that for me?” Derek asked, in a tone too low for Lucilla to hear it.

“Oh no—­not particularly.  I mean it for—­any one.”

“Because,” Derek went on, “as for me—­I’m not worthy to have her under my roof.”

The banker made no comment, sitting in a hunched attitude and humming to himself in a cracked voice while Derek stared down at him.

They were still in this position when Marion Grimston was shown in.

XXV

Greetings having been exchanged, it was Miss Lucilla’s policy to draw her uncle away to some other room, leaving Marion free to have her conference with Pruyn; but the old man settled himself in his chair again, with no intention of quitting the field.  Derek, too, entered on the task of dislodging him, but without success.  Nursing his knee, and peering at Marion with bulgy, short-sighted eyes, the banker kept her answering questions as to Mrs. Bayford’s health, blind to her obvious nervousness and distress.

The cousins exchanged baffled, impatient glances, while Lucilla managed to say in an undertone:  “Take Marion to the drawing-room.  We’ll never get him to go.”

Derek was about to comply with this suggestion, when the footman threw open the library door again.  For a moment no one appeared, though a sound of smothered voices from the hall caused the four within the room to sit in strangely aroused expectancy.

“No, no; I can’t go in,” came a woman’s whispered protest.  “You can do it without me.”

“You must!” was the man’s response; and a second later Bienville was on the threshold, standing aside as Diane Eveleth entered.

Derek sprang to his feet, but, as if petrified by a sense of his own impotence, stood still.  Miss Lucilla, with the instincts of the hostess awake, even in these strange conditions, went forward, with her hand half outstretched and the words “Monsieur de Bienville” on her lips.  The old banker rose, and, taking Diane’s hand, drew it within his arm in a protecting way for which she was grateful, while she suffered him to lead her some few steps apart.  Marion Grimston alone, seated in a distant corner, did not move.  With her arm resting on a small table, she watched the rapidly enacted scene with the detachment of a spectator looking at a play.  She had thrown back her black veil over her hat, and against the dark background her face had the grave, marble whiteness of classic features in stone.

During the minute of interrogatory silence that ensued, Bienville, with quick reversion to the habits of the drawing-room, was able to re-establish his self-control.  With his hat, his gloves, and his stick, he had that air of the casual visitor which helped to give him back the sensation of having his feet on accustomed ground.