“My message,” Aynesworth said, “is from Sir Wingrave Seton.”
The look of enquiry, half impatient, half interrogative, faded slowly from her face. She stood quite still; her impassive features seemed like a plaster cast, from which all life and feeling were drawn out. Her eyes began slowly to dilate, and she shivered as though with cold. Then the man who was watching her and wondering, knew that this was fear—fear undiluted and naked.
He stepped forward, and placed a chair for her. She felt for the back of it with trembling fingers and sat down.
“Is—Sir Wingrave Seton—out of prison?” she asked in a strange, dry tone. One would have thought that she had been choking.
“Since yesterday,” Aynesworth answered.
“But his time—is not up yet?”
“There is always a reduction,” Aynesworth reminded her, “for what is called good conduct.”
She was silent for several moments. Then she raised her head. She was a brave woman, and she was rapidly recovering her self-possession.
“Well,” she asked, “what does he want?”
“To see you,” Aynesworth answered, “tomorrow afternoon, either here or at his apartments in the Clarence Hotel. He would prefer not to come here!”