"WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?"
It seemed to Duncombe that time stood still. Andrew's face, wholly disfigured by the hideous dark spectacles, unrecognizable, threatening, was within a few inches of his own. He felt the other's hot breath upon his cheek. For a moment there stole through his numbed senses the fear of more terrible things. And then the grip which held him relaxed. Andrew stood away gasping. The crisis was over.
"You lied to me, George. Why?"
Duncombe did not answer. He could not. It was as though his body had been emptied of all breath.
"You meant to keep the contents of that telegram a secret from me. Why? Was I right after all? Read me that telegram, George. Read it me truthfully."
"The telegram is from Spencer," Duncombe said. "He is coming here."
"Here? Is he giving up the search? Has he failed, then?"
"He does not say," Duncombe answered. "He says simply that he is coming here. He has wired for a motor to meet him at Lynn. He may be here to-night."
A discordant laugh broke from Pelham's lips.
"What about your Miss Fielding, now?" he exclaimed. "Why do you suppose that he is leaving Paris, and coming here? I was right. I knew that I was right."