“What of her?” Wingrave asked.
“It was she who was with me,” Aynesworth remarked. “It was she who saw you in the box with the Marchioness of Westchester.”
Aynesworth was puzzled by the intentness with which Wingrave was regarding him. Impenetrable though the man was, Aynesworth, who had not yet lost his early trick of studying him closely, knew that, for some reason or other, his intelligence had proved disturbing.
“Have you then—kept up your acquaintance with this child?” he demanded.
Aynesworth shook his head.
“She is not a child any longer, but a very beautiful young woman,” he said. “I met her again quite by accident. She is up in London, studying art at the studio of an old friend of mine who has a class of girls. I called to see him the other afternoon, and recognized her.”
“Your acquaintance,” Wingrave remarked, “has progressed rapidly if she accepts your escort—to the gallery of the Opera!”
“It was scarcely like that,” Aynesworth explained. “I met her and Mrs. Tresfarwin on the way there, and asked to be allowed to accompany them. Mrs. Tresfarwin was once your housekeeper, I think, at Tredowen.”
“And did you solve the mystery of this relation of her father who turned up so opportunely?” Wingrave asked.
Aynesworth shook his head.