But as he passed he caught a sentence spoken suddenly by
Wethermill.
"Well, it is true; I must have money." And the agitated voice and
words remained fixed in his memory. He heard, too, a warning
"Hush!" from the maid. Then they passed out of his hearing. But he
turned and saw that Wethermill was talking volubly. What Harry
Wethermill was saying he was saying in a foolish burst of
confidence.
"You have guessed it, Helene--you alone." He had mortgaged his
patent twice over--once in France, once in England--and the second
time had been a month ago. He had received a large sum down, which
went to pay his pressing creditors. He had hoped to pay the sum
back from a new invention.
"But Helene, I tell you," he said, "I have a conscience." And when
she smiled he explained. "Oh, not what the priests would call a
conscience; that I know. But none the less I have a conscience--a
conscience about the things which really matter, at all events to
me. There is a flaw in that new invention. It can be improved; I
know that. But as yet I do not see how, and--I cannot help it--I
must get it right; I cannot let it go imperfect when I know that
it's imperfect, when I know that it can be improved, when I am
sure that I shall sooner or later hit upon the needed improvement.
That is what I mean when I say I have a conscience."
Helena Vauquier smiled indulgently. Men were queer fish. Things
which were really of no account troubled and perplexed them and
gave them sleepless nights. But it was not for her to object,
since it was one of these queer anomalies which was giving her her
chance.
"And the people are finding out that you have sold your rights
twice over," she said sympathetically. "That is a pity, monsieur."
"They know," he answered; "those in England know."
"And they are very angry?"
"They threaten me," said Wethermill. "They give me a month to
restore the money. Otherwise there will be disgrace, imprisonment,
penal servitude."
Helene Vauquier walked calmly on. No sign of the intense joy which
she felt was visible in her face, and only a trace of it in her
voice.
"Monsieur will, perhaps, meet me tomorrow in Geneva," she said.
And she named a small cafe in a back street. "I can get a holiday
for the afternoon." And as they were near to the villa and the
lights, she walked on ahead.
Wethermill loitered behind. He had tried his luck at the tables
and had failed. And--and--he must have the money.
He travelled, accordingly, the next day to Geneva, and was there
presented to Adele Tace and Hippolyte.
"They are trusted friends of mine," said Helene Vauquier to
Wethermill, who was not inspired to confidence by the sight of the
young man with the big ears and the plastered hair. As a matter of
fact, she had never met them before they came this year to Aix.