“I am surprised you have heard nothing of this, Mr Fordham,” she went on. “We thought it was upon this subject that you had done us the favour to call. May I ask, then—what is the nature of your business with Sir Francis?”
If Fordham was inwardly bursting with sardonic mirth, he was not going to show it. The unbounded impudence of the woman, practically asking him what the devil he wanted there at all—and expecting he was going to tell her—struck him as the richest thing he had heard for a very long time.
“Pardon me, Lady Orlebar, if I seem rude,” he answered, shortly; “but the nature of my business happens to concern Sir Francis alone. We had only just begun to enter upon it when you came in; but if Sir Francis is not equal to hearing my communication to-night I shall be happy to call again in the morning, or in a day or two.”
But Sir Francis was equal—very much so. The suspense he was undergoing was far too real—sickening in fact. So he turned upon his spouse with an energy that astonished that now irate personage.
“I think, my dear, you had perhaps better leave us. Our business is private and important—in fact, very important.” And going over to the door he held it open for her in such wise as to leave her no alternative.
“Very well, Sir Francis,” she spluttered, fairly beside herself with rage. “I am turned out of the room, mind, and by you! Very well. But I have no wish to hear your secrets. They are sure to be of a discreditable nature, anyhow.”
With this parting shot she disappeared. Fordham, looking after her, slightly shook his head, and reflected that if he had thought to chastise his old enemy with whips, assuredly Fate had elected to do so with scorpions. Anybody under the heel of such a woman as this, had about come to the bottom of the cup of misfortune. Surely he had nothing worse left to fear.
“And now that we are alone,” said Sir Francis, coming back from the door which he had closed after his wife, “perhaps you will er—enlighten me as to the nature of this communication.”
He looked so unstrung, so worn, so piteous in his agony of suspense, that even a ray of ruth may have entered the heart of his implacable enemy. But if so, it was quickly quenched.
“Did it never strike you as odd?” said the latter, “that Philip should have been back all these weeks, and yet not have thought it worth his while running over to see you?”