This secret espionage had been going on for days
in the chateau; scarcely a move was made or a word spoken by the white
people that escaped the attention of a swarthy spy. And, curiously
enough, these spies were no longer reporting their discoveries to
Hollingsworth Chase.
The days passed. Hollingsworth Chase now realised that he no longer had
authority over the natives; they suffered him to come and go, but gave
no heed to his suggestions. Rasula made the reports for the islanders
and took charge of the statements from the bank.
Every morning he rode boldly into the town, transacted what business he
could, talked with the thoroughly disturbed bankers, and then defiantly
made his way to the chateau. He was in love with the Princess--
desperately in love. He understood perfectly--for he was a man of
the world and cosmopolitan--that nothing could come of it. She was a
princess and she was not in a story book; she _could_ not marry him. It
was out of the question; of that he was thoroughly convinced, even in
the beginning.
So far as Genevra was concerned, on her part it could mean no more than
a diversion, a condescension to coquetry, a simple flirtation; it meant
the passing of a few days, the killing of time, the pleasure of gentle
conquest, and then--forgetfulness.
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