Timothy rose, shaking himself and rubbing his bruised shoulder. Without a word, and with only a look at the woman, he made for the door and banged it in her face. His head was swimming as he made his way up the stairs, swaying at every step. From the broad landing at the top led three doors, only one of which was closed. He turned the handle and went in.
A man was standing by the window, which overlooked the calm expanse of ocean, glittering in the light of the rising sun. From shoulder to heel he was clad in a long white mantle and a dark blue turban encircled his head.
“Now, Cartwright,” said Timothy, “you and I will settle accounts.”
The man had not moved at the sound of the voice, but when Timothy had finished he turned.
“My God!” cried Timothy. “Sir John Maxell.”
CHAPTER THE LAST
“TIMOTHY,” said Mary, “I was just thinking about that beautiful house you took me to see at Cap Martin.”
“Were you, dear?” said Timothy without any show of interest.
They were on the cross-Channel boat and Boulogne was astern.
“Yes,” said the girl. “Do you know, I had a feeling that you had taken me there to show me to somebody, some friend of yours perhaps. All the time I was walking about the garden I had a sense of being watched. It is not an uncomfortable sensation, but just that overlooked feeling one has sometimes. I love Monte Carlo. Do you think we shall go back there after—after——”