“Not yet,” Aynesworth answered. “The letters marked private I have sent up to your room. By the bye, there was something I wanted to tell you.”
Wingrave closed the door.
“Well?” he said.
“I was up in the gallery of the Opera House last night,” Aynesworth said, “with a—person who saw you only once, soon after I first came to you—before America. You were some distance away, and yet—my friend recognized you.”
Wingrave shrugged his shoulders.
“That, of course, is possible,” he answered. “It really does not matter so very much unless they knew me—as Wingrave Seton!”
“My friend,” Aynesworth said, “recognized you as Sir Wingrave Seton.”
Wingrave frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
“Who was it?” he asked.
“A most unlikely person,” Aynesworth remarked smiling. “Do you remember, when we went down to Tredowen just before we left for America, a little, long-legged, black-frocked child, whom we met in the gardens—the organist’s daughter, you know?”