“Certainly,” interposed Colonel Dacre, for, although he had not recognized the voice, it had left a strange feeling of expectancy behind, and he longed to see the face to which it belonged. Mrs. O’Hara was simply curious, while her namesake, seeing, no doubt, that escape was impossible, faced her tormentors boldly, like a hunted animal brought to bay.
Somehow, Colonel Dacre was not nearly so surprised as might have been expected, when the sudden light displayed the stately head and beautiful features of Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur. But he was surprised when Mrs. O’Hara, waiting for the door to close upon the waiter, advanced to the table, and said, in a tone of passionate repulsion:
“So it is you, my lady? I wonder you care to be here, although I do not wonder at your sheltering yourself behind an honest name. You have said many spiteful things of me in my time; but it has never been possible to say of me, with truth, that I destroyed a poor soul who loved me only too well.”
“I don’t understand you,” returned Lady Gwendolyn, with all the hauteur of her race.
“No? Then I will endeavor to make myself intelligible. I have just returned from Turoy.”
Lady Gwendolyn was all attention, but not by a movement of the eyelids even did she show interest or apprehension.
“I went there in the company of my solicitor and of a clever detective, whom he always employs when he has any difficult business on hand. The result was to leave us without the least moral doubt that my unfortunate brother came to his death through you.”
A sudden flash brightened Lady Gwendolyn’s eyes, but she answered quietly:
“Pray go on. I suppose you are prepared to prove what you have just stated?”
“Not yet,” Mrs. O’Hara admitted; “but we are fast collecting evidence.”