"When will Mademoiselle be back?" he asked, putting a hand on himself.
"To-night," answered Denzil, with an antipathetic eye.
"Don't be a damn fool. Tell me the hour when you think she will be at
home. Before dinner--within the next sixty minutes?"
"Ma'm'selle is under no orders. She didn't say when she would be
back--but no!"
"Do you think she'll be back for dinner?" asked Tarboe, smothering his
anger, but get to get his own way.
"I think she'll be back for dinner!" and he drove the spade into the
ground.
"Then I'll sit down and wait." Tarboe made for the verandah.
Denzil presently trotted after and said: "I'd like a word with you."
Tarboe turned round. "Well, what have you got to say?"
"Better be said in my house, not here," replied Denzil. His face was
pale, but there was fire in his eyes. There was no danger of violence,
and, if there were, Tarboe could deal with it. Why should there be
violence? Why should that semi-insanity in Denzil's eyes disturb him? The
one thing to do was to forge ahead. He nodded.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked presently, as they passed through the
gate.
"To my little house by the Three Trees. I've got things I'd like to show
you, and there's some things I'd like to say.
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