It was barely half-past nine when Annesley’s cab pulled up before the villa in Hyde Park.
He was admitted by Nina, and, in answer to his eager inquiries, heard that her mistress was completely recovered.
“The doctor thought it useless to remain,” she concluded, “and has been gone an hour. Oh, Sir Harold,” with quivering lips, “I have read it all in the papers!”
“The papers! Ah!” he exclaimed, “I had forgotten!”
He followed Nina into the morning-room, where Lady Elaine was seated, and a faint flush mounted to her cheeks when he entered.
“You are well, almost?” he said, taking one of her thin hands between his own.
“As well as I can ever be, Harold.”
Some way she could not help addressing him in the old, familiar manner. He was her lover still, though another had a stronger claim upon him.
“I have read all in the newspaper this morning,” she shuddered. “I did not realize the danger I had been in until then, and, but for you, Heaven alone knows what may have happened!”
“Now that Rivington is dead you are free,” Annesley observed, “and I should advise sending for Mr. Worboys at once.”