"Almost every morning," she answered. "His sister lent me a horse and a
riding habit. It was very kind of her," she raised her voice, and blushed
deeply in the rushing wind.

Chester felt his mind suddenly fill with angry suspicion. Was it possible
that this Comte de Virieu, this man of whom that nice Madame Wachner had
spoken with such scorn as a confirmed gambler, was "making up" to Sylvia?
It was a monstrous idea--but Chester, being a solicitor, knew only too
well that in the matter of marriage the most monstrous and disastrous
things are not only always possible but sometimes probable. Chester
believed that all Frenchmen regard marriage as a matter of business. To
such a man as this Count, Mrs. Bailey's fortune would be a godsend.

"Sylvia!" he exclaimed, in a low, stern voice.

He turned round and looked at her. She was staring straight before her;
the colour had faded from her cheek; she looked pale and tired.

"Sylvia!" he repeated. "Listen to me, and--and don't be offended."

She glanced quickly at the man sitting by her side. His voice was charged
with emotion, with anger.

"Don't be angry with me," he repeated. "If my suspicion, my fear, is
unfounded, I beg your pardon with all my heart."

Sylvia got up and touched the driver on the shoulder. "Please slow down,"
she said in French, "we are going faster than I like."

Then she sank back in her seat. "Yes, Bill! What is it you wish to ask