Lucy called a cab, and Leslie sank back, her hands clasped tightly, her face white as death behind her veil.
"You frighten me, Leslie!" said Lucy, holding her hand. "And you look so frightened yourself. What is it, dear? You look as if you had seen a ghost."
"Yes," said Leslie, but in so low a voice that Lucy could not hear her. "Yes, I have seen a ghost."
Yorke stood on the steps of the club with downcast face and moody eyes for some half minute, then the eyes lit up with a sombre light, and going down the steps he crossed the road and laid his hand sharply on the shoulder of a man who was lounging against a post. The man looked up, but he did not appear surprised.
"You're watching me!" said Yorke, and his voice matched his face—it was hard and stern. "You have been watching me for the last two days. Don't trouble to deny it!"
The man, whose appearance was like that of a respectable servant out of livery, a butler out of place, for instance, touched his hat.
"Lord Auchester, I think, sir?" he said coolly, yet not disrespectfully.
"You know my name well enough," said Yorke a little less sternly, as if he were too weary to be resentful. "Who are you and what do you want? I have seen you following me for the last two days. Why do you do it? What is it?"
The man took a paper from his pocket, and just touched Yorke's arm with his finger, as if he were going through some form.
"I am a sheriff's officer, my lord," he said, "and this is my writ."