He saw her whiten. He saw her fingers clutch the sides of her chair.
“From Lenox? And his name?”
“The Duke of Souspennier! He takes himself so seriously that he even travels incognito. At the hotel he calls himself Mr. Sabin.”
“Indeed!”
“I wondered whether you might not know him?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“And in connection with this man,” Brott continued, “I have something in the nature of a confession to make. I forgot for a moment your request. I even mentioned your name.”
The pallor had spread to her cheeks, even to her lips. Yet her eyes were soft and brilliant, so brilliant that they fascinated him.
“What did he say? What did he ask?”
“He asked for your address. Don’t be afraid. I made some excuse. I did not give it.”