Each in a different manner, the three men were perhaps equally interested in these people. Geoffrey Densham was attracted as an artist by the extreme and rare beauty of the girl. Wolfenden’s interest was at once more sentimental and more personal. Harcutt’s arose partly out of curiosity, partly from innate love of adventure. Both Densham and Harcutt were exceedingly interested as to their probable destination. From it they would be able to gather some idea as to the status and social position of Mr. Sabin and his companion. Both were perhaps a little surprised when the brougham, which had been making its way into the heart of fashionable London, turned into Belgrave Square and pulled up before a great, porticoed house, brilliantly lit, and with a crimson drugget and covered way stretched out across the pavement. Harcutt sprang out first, just in time to see the two pass through the opened doorway, the man leaning heavily upon his stick, the girl, with her daintily gloved fingers just resting upon his coat-sleeve, walking with that uncommon and graceful self-possession which had so attracted Densham during her passage through the supper-room at the “Milan” a short while ago.
Harcutt looked after them, watching them disappear with a frown upon his forehead.
“Rather a sell, isn’t it?” said a quiet voice in his ear.
He turned abruptly round. Densham was standing upon the pavement by his side.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed testily. “What are you doing here?”
Densham threw away his cigarette and laughed.
“I might return the question, I suppose,” he remarked. “We both followed the young lady and her imaginary papa! We were both anxious to find out where they lived—and we are both sold!”
“Very badly sold,” Harcutt admitted. “What do you propose to do now? We can’t wait outside here for an hour or two!”
Densham hesitated.
“No, we can’t do that,” he said. “Have you any plan?”