He pulled himself together—he had no secrets from his wife.
“Listen,” he said, and read aloud:
RUE DE ST. QUINTAINE. PARIS.
DEAR Mr. RUFF, It is a long time since we had the pleasure of a visit from you. It is the desire of Madame that you should join our circle here on Thursday evening next at ten o’clock.
SOGRANGE.
Violet was a little perplexed. She failed, somehow, to recognize the sinister note underlying those few sentences, “It sounds friendly enough,” she remarked. “You are not obliged to go, of course.”
Peter Ruff smiled grimly.
“Yes, it sounds all right,” he admitted.
“They won’t expect you to take any notice of it, surely?” she continued. “When you bought this place, Peter, and left your London offices, you gave them definitely to understand that you had retired into private life, that all these things were finished with you.”
“There are some things,” Peter Ruff said, slowly, “which are never finished.”