“Your daughter was with Mr. Stephen Hurd, Mrs. Foulton,” he said.
The woman threw her apron over her head and hastened away. They heard her sobbing in the kitchen. Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders.
“What a bore!” she remarked. “We shan’t get any tea. People of this sort have no self-control.”
Macheson looked at her sternly.
“Have the people here,” he asked, “been connecting me with this child’s disappearance?”
“I suppose so,” she answered carelessly. “Rather a new line for you, isn’t it—the gay Lothario! It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t be so mysterious.”
“You didn’t believe it?” he said shortly.
“Why not? You’ve been—seeing life lately, haven’t you?”
“You didn’t believe it?” he repeated, keeping his eyes fixed upon her.
She came over to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Her pale face was upturned to his. It seemed open to him to transform her attitude into a caress.