"Of whom?" said Yorke, with a frown, though he knew well enough.
"Of Leslie," said the duke, and a faint flush passed over his emaciated face.
Yorke shook his head.
"No," he replied, clearing his throat. "No, I have seen nothing and heard nothing of her since I left Portmaris."
"She must have gone out of England," said the duke, knitting his brows. "Her father being an artist—as he thinks himself, poor fellow—would be ready enough to come abroad here on the Continent. It is strange that I have not run across them."
Yorke said nothing, but the frown on his forehead deepened and darkened.
"When I shuffle off this mortal coil you will find in my will that I have mentioned—Leslie." He paused before the name. "You won't mind, Yorke? She wouldn't take any money from me alive, but she may not mind when I'm gone. After all, it was a cruel trick we—no, I—played her, Yorke," he said, in a remorseful tone.
"It was!" said Yorke, curtly. "But it was a test, and she failed in it."
The duke sighed. Silence again for a moment or two; then, as if he were giving speech to a thought that had occurred to him before, and often before, this he said, hesitatingly: