"It was only of your appearance she was speaking," Letitia continued. "She said that she could see three things in your face—a Franciscan monk, a head maïtre d'hôtel at the most select of French restaurants, and the modern decadent criminal, as opposed to the Charles Peace type."
"I am much obliged, I'm sure," he remarked, leaning back and laughing for once quite naturally. "My type of criminal, I presume, is one who brings art to his aid in working out his nefarious schemes."
"Precisely," she murmured. "Like Wainwright, the poisoner, or the Borgias. But at any rate we agreed upon something. There is purpose in your face."
"You speak as though that were unusual! I suppose we all have a set course in life."
She nodded.
"And a good deal depends upon the goal, doesn't it?"
There was a brief—to David, an enigmatic pause. Letitia's questions had puzzled him. She might almost have suspected his identity. They both listened idly for a few moments to the music of a violin, which some one was playing in the drawing-room.
"You've asked me a great many questions," he said abruptly. "What about you? What is your goal?"
"My dear Mr. Thain," she replied, "how can you ask! I am an impecunious young woman of luxurious tastes. It is my purpose to entrap somebody with a comfortable income into marrying me. I have been at it for several seasons," she went on a little dolefully, "but so far Charles Grantham is my only certainty, and he wobbles sometimes—especially when he sees anything of Sylvia Laycey."
"Sylvia Laycey," he repeated. "Is she the daughter of the present tenant of Broomleys?"