"The—the young lady, my lord, as you took charge of on the train. I was just passing through the 'all as she came in and so——"
"Here?" exclaimed Cyril. "Why didn't you show her up at once?"
"But, my lord," objected Peter. "If 'er Ladyship should 'ear——"
"Mind your own business, you fool, or——"
But Peter had already scuttled out of the room.
Cyril waited, every nerve strung to the highest tension. Was he again to be disappointed? Yet if his visitor was really Anita, some new misfortune must have occurred! It seemed to him ages before the door again opened and admitted a small, cloaked figure, whose features were practically concealed by a heavy veil. A glance, however, sufficed to assure him that it was indeed Anita who stood before him. While Cyril was struggling to regain his composure, she lifted her veil. The desperation of her eyes appalled him.
"My God, what is the matter?" cried Cyril, striding forward and seizing her hands.
She gently disengaged herself.
"Lord Wilmersley—" Cyril jumped as if he had been shot. "Yes," she continued, "I know who you are. I also know who I am."
"But who told you?" stuttered Cyril.