"Isn't it rather a pity that you left Portmaris?" said Yorke after a slight pause. "It was a pretty place, and healthy and all that, and I thought you rather liked it than otherwise."
"It's a pity I ever went there," responded the duke grimly.
Yorke looked up suddenly and caught the eyes fixed on him half pityingly.
"Why so?" he asked. "I should say you were the better for the change——."
"And I should say I was so much the worse," broke in the duke. "And now we have fenced with each other and beat about the bush, Yorke, don't you think we'd better be open and above board?"
"What do you mean?"
The duke raised himself a little higher, and worked the lever of the couch so that he brought himself facing Yorke.
"Why do you look as if you were waiting for a sentence of life or death, Yorke?" he said quietly. "You look as anxious and harried and worn as a man might look who stood on the brink of ruin. Have you heard from her?" he added quietly but sharply.
"Heard from whom?" said Yorke with averted eyes.
"From Miss Lisle—Leslie," said the duke.