Miss Mabel Fay,
15, Queen Street.
I felt my cheeks flush as I tore it into pieces and flung them on the ground. Then I followed Mr. Marx out to the carriage and, leaning back among the cushions by his side, I began seriously to consider an idea which every trifling incident during the latter part of the evening had pointed to; Mr. Marx had deliberately tried to lead me into making a fool of myself with Miss Mabel Fay. Why?
CHAPTER XVIII.
AT MIDNIGHT ON THE MOOR.
We were more than half-way home before Mr. Marx broke a silence which was becoming oppressive.
“Well, have you enjoyed your evening?” he asked.
“Of course I have, and I’m very much obliged to you for taking me to the theatre,” I added. After all, perhaps I was misjudging him. What possible motive could he have for being my enemy?
“Oh, that’s all right,” he declared, carefully lighting a cigar and throwing the match out of the window. “I’m afraid you’ve had more than one illusion dispelled this evening, though,” he went on, smiling. “You must have had plenty of time and opportunity, too, for weaving them, out here all your life. Have you never been away to visit your relations, or anything of that sort?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t believe I have any relations,” I said. “I never heard of any. My father used to say that he was the last of his family.”