Chance

And the best of it was that the danger was all over already. There was

no danger any more. The supposed nephew's appearance had a purpose. He

had come, full, full to trembling--with the bigness of his news. There

must have been rumours already as to the shaky position of the de

Barral's concerns; but only amongst those in the very inmost know. No

rumour or echo of rumour had reached the profane in the West-End--let

alone in the guileless marine suburb of Hove. The Fynes had no

suspicion; the governess, playing with cold, distinguished exclusiveness

the part of mother to the fabulously wealthy Miss de Barral, had no

suspicion; the masters of music, of drawing, of dancing to Miss de

Barral, had no idea; the minds of her medical man, of her dentist, of the

servants in the house, of the tradesmen proud of having the name of de

Barral on their books, were in a state of absolute serenity. Thus, that

fellow, who had unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tip from

somebody in the City arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-time, with

something very much in the nature of a deadly bomb in his possession. But

he knew better than to throw it on the public pavement. He ate his lunch

impenetrably, sitting opposite Flora de Barral, and then, on some excuse,

closeted himself with the woman whom little Fyne's charity described

(with a slight hesitation of speech however) as his "Aunt."

What they said to each other in private we can imagine. She came out of

her own sitting-room with red spots on her cheek-bones, which having

provoked a question from her "beloved" charge, were accounted for by a

curt "I have a headache coming on." But we may be certain that the talk

being over she must have said to that young blackguard: "You had better

take her out for a ride as usual." We have proof positive of this in

Fyne and Mrs. Fyne observing them mount at the door and pass under the

windows of their sitting-room, talking together, and the poor girl all

smiles; because she enjoyed in all innocence the company of Charley. She

made no secret of it whatever to Mrs. Fyne; in fact, she had confided to

her, long before, that she liked him very much: a confidence which had

filled Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of powerless anguish

which is experienced in certain kinds of nightmare. For how could she

warn the girl? She did venture to tell her once that she didn't like Mr.

Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment. How was it

possible not to like Charley? Afterwards with naive loyalty she told

Mrs. Fyne that, immensely as she was fond of her she could not hear a

word against Charley--the wonderful Charley.