"You are to wait here," he said, turning to the driver, "for a lady and a red-haired gentleman. Now understand, no one but a red-haired man is to enter this car. Here is a pound, and if you don't make a mess of things, the other gentleman will give you two more."
"All right, sir; thank you, sir," exclaimed the astonished chauffeur, greedily pocketing the gold piece.
Cyril was certain that he had not been followed, and there was no sign that the nursing home was being watched, but that did not reassure him. Those curtained windows opposite might conceal a hundred prying eyes.
When he was ushered into Miss Prentice's room, he was surprised to find her already up and dressed. She held a mirror in one hand and with the other was arranging a yellow wig, which encircled her face like an aureole. Cyril could hardly restrain a cry of admiration. He had thought her lovely before, but now her beauty was absolutely startling.
On catching sight of him she dropped the mirror and ran to him with outstretched hands.
"Oh! I am so glad you have come. How do you like my hair?" she exclaimed all in one breath.
Cyril heroically disengaged himself from her soft, clinging clasp and not daring to allow his eyes to linger on her upturned face, he surveyed the article in question judicially.
"For a wig it's not bad. I can't say, however, that I like anything artificial," he asserted mendaciously.
"You prefer my own hair!" she cried, and the corners of her mouth began to droop in a way he had already begun to dread. "Oh! what shall I do? Nurse tells me it will take ages and ages for it to grow again."
"There, there, my dear, it's all right. You look lovely—" he paused abruptly.