“Puddephatt,” says my mistress——’
The recital was never finished, for at that moment they reached the front-door. In the roadway stood the Décauville motor with lights gleaming. By the side of the Décauville stood Teresa Craig enveloped in a gray mackintosh.
Richard’s face showed his intense pleasure at the most unlooked-for encounter.
‘Miss Craig,’ he said eagerly, ‘I hope you are in no trouble. Can I be of any assistance?’
She glanced at him coldly, inimically.
‘Mr. Redgrave,’ she replied with bitterness, and then looked about—the little street was deserted—‘I have come to seek an explanation from you. If you are an honourable man you will give it. And I have come, much against my inclination, to ask a favour. Bridget, take care of the motor.’
She swept imperially before him into the portals of the house.
‘Mr. Redgrave,’ said Teresa, in a tone which clearly indicated that she meant to lead the conversation, ‘we have not seen each other since I was so foolish as to faint in the—the shed.’
They sat together in Richard’s little office. It was not without difficulty that he had induced her even to sit down. Her demeanour was hostile. Her fine, imperious face had a stormy and implacable look—a look almost resentful, and Richard felt something of a culprit before that gaze. He met her eyes, however, with such bravery as he could muster.
‘Not since then,’ he assented. ‘I trust you are fully recovered, Miss Craig.’