"Who is that?" I demanded, wheeling round without ceremony.
But if I was startled, Mrs. Carlingford seemed ready to drop with fright. The little woman—she was a very small, shrinking creature, with a pallid face and large nervous eyes—put out a hand against the jamb of the door, and gasped out—
"Why do you ask? What do you want?"
"I beg your pardon," I said; "it was merely curiosity. I thought I had seen the face somewhere."
"He was my husband."
"He is dead, then?"
"Oh, why do you ask? Yes; he died abroad." She touched her widow's cap with a shaking finger, and then covered her face with her hands. "I was there—I saw it. Why do you ask?" she repeated.
"I beg your pardon sincerely," I said; "it was only that the portrait reminded me of somebody—But my business here is quite different. I am come about the yacht Siren which you have advertised for sale."
She seemed more than ever inclined to run. Her voice scarcely rose above a whisper.
"My agents at F— have full instructions about the sale."