Her face changed instantly. It was as though a mask had been dropped over it. Her eyes were fixed, her features expressionless.
"Well?" she said, simply.
He drew a letter from his pocket.
"You may as well see it yourself," he remarked. "For reasons which you may doubtless understand, I have always kept on good terms with Mrs. Phillimore, and she was to have dined with me and some other friends to-morrow night. Here is a note which I had from her yesterday. Will you read it?"
Berenice held it between her finger tips. There were only a few lines, and she read them at a glance.
Sloane Gardens,
Tuesday.
My dear Sir Leslie,
I am so sorry, but I must scratch for to-morrow night. L. is going North on some mysterious expedition, and I am afraid that he will want me to go with him. In fact, he has already said so. Ask me again some time, won't you?
Yours ever,
Blanche Phillimore.
Berenice folded up the letter and returned it.