“He was an old friend of yours?” I continued, purely for the sake of keeping up the conversation.
“Not very. Oh, no! Scarcely friend at all,” he disclaimed. “I did him a turn in Rio last month. Nothing to speak of, but he was grateful.”
“Where?” I asked, abruptly.
“Rio,” he repeated. “Rio Janeiro—you know, capital of South America.”
I turned and faced him suddenly. His eyes had been fixed on my face. He had been watching me furtively. My heart beat suddenly faster. I drew a little breath, I could not trust myself to speak for a moment. After a brief pause he continued—
“I’ve been out there a good many years. Long enough to get jolly well sick of the place and people and everything connected with it. I’m thankful to say that I’ve finished with it.”
“You are not going back, then,” I remarked, indifferently.
“Not I,” he declared. “I only went to make money, and I’ve made it—a good deal. Now I’m going to enjoy it, here, in the old country. Marry and settle down, and all that sort of thing, you know, Miss Ffolliot.”
His keen, black eyes were fixed upon my face. I felt a slight flush of color in my cheeks. At that moment I hated Lady Naselton. She had been talking to this odious man about me, and he had been quick enough to understand her aright. I should have liked to have got up but for a certain reason. He had come from South America. He had arrived in London about the 15th. So I sat there and suffered.