She looked at him steadily for several moments without speaking. He was not a person of quick apprehensions, but even he could not fail to see the change in her face. Her lips were parted, her eyes were suddenly lit with an almost passionate fire. The change in her features was illuminating. She was no longer a tired, depressed-looking young woman of ill-tempered appearance. Her good looks had reasserted themselves. Life seemed to have been breathed into her pulses.
"His real name was Sinclair," she repeated softly. "He came from South Africa. Tell me some more about him?"
"Why?" he asked bluntly.
"Because," she told him, "my name is Ruby Sinclair, and I am here on very much the same errand as you, only with this difference," she added,—"I know where my uncle is. I know what has become of him. There are other things for which I seek."
He came over from the window, and stood on the hearthrug by her side. Some part of her excitement had become communicated to him. "I say," he exclaimed, "this is a rum go, and no mistake! If it's the same man, we may be able to help one another. It's Richard Sinclair I am looking for, called over there Bully Sinclair. He was a man about fifty years old, been in South Africa for the last twenty years, a mine prospector and general adventurer. He'd had his fingers in a good many pies, had Richard."
"What was he over in England for?" she asked.
The young man hesitated. "I don't know that there's any harm in telling you," he said, "only remember its information for information. I'm giving you the whole show away."
"I'll tell you all you want to know," she interrupted. "Go on."
"Well," the young man said, "he came over to lay claim to a gold-mine that he considered he'd been done out of."
"A gold-mine!" the girl repeated breathlessly. "Was it a rich one—very rich, I mean?"