She would
not let him go.
Half an hour later she was in a hansom, trying to decide the details
relative to her decision. He should not go, but which of the several
possible ways should she employ to prevent it?
Before she could decide on anything more than the great fact that, cost
what it may, she would not let him go, the hansom drew up at the house,
and she was about to get out when the front door opened and Joyselle
himself appeared.
"You!" he cried, impetuously, and then stood still. "You got my note?"
he added a second later, sternly.
Her heart sank. He was very strong. Then he came towards her, his brows
drawn down over his eyes, his nostrils dilated, and she lied.
"No--what note?"
Normans are quick to suspect deceit, and for a moment his expression did
not change; then, for individually the man was as trustful as racially
he was suspicious, he smiled. "I see. But why are you out so early? It
is not yet nine."
"And you?" she returned deftly, her heart beating not only with the
excitement of the duel, but with enjoyment of her own skill.
"I--well, I have business."
"Then get in and I'll take you wherever you want to go, I want to talk
to you.
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