“What man?”
“ The man. That’s what Derek was driving at. Some special man who is a friend of yours. You needn’t worry, honey, I know there is nothing in it, but we have got to look at everything as it might appear to the Court. They can twist these things about a good deal, you know. I want to know who the man is, and just how friendly you have been with him.”
Ruth didn’t answer. Her hands were kneading themselves together in intense nervous absorption.
“Come, honey,” said Van Aldin in a softer voice. “Don’t be afraid of your old Dad. I was not too harsh, was I, even that time in Paris?—By gosh!”
He stopped, thunderstruck.
“That’s who it was,” he murmured to himself. “I thought I knew his face.”
“What are you talking about, Dad? I don’t understand.”
The millionaire strode across to her and took her firmly by the wrist.
“See here, Ruth, have you been seeing that fellow again?”
“What fellow?”
“The one we had all that fuss about years ago. You know who I mean well enough.”
“You mean”—she hesitated—“you mean the Comte de la Roche?”
“Comte de la Roche!” snorted Van Aldin. “I told you at the time that the man was no better than a swindler. You had entangled yourself with him then very deeply, but I got you out of his clutches.”