It is useless to describe the rooms in detail, but Mr. Monk had done himself full justice in the way of art and comfort. We went into a Moorish smoking-room, which reminded me of Cairo, and I accepted coffee and cigarettes. Perhaps Mr. Monk had some hazy idea connected with the Eastern decorations that, having partaken of his bread and salt, I would not betray him, for he pressed tobacco and Mocha on me very assiduously. I took all he offered, but reserved my private right of judgment. To save Lady Mabel from this fraudulent adventurer by denouncing him was not a betrayal in my eyes. The sole thing that had prevented me stripping him of his fine feathers hitherto had been the undoubted fact that he was Gertrude's father. And so I had told him in the motor.
"You see that I am comfortable here," said Mr. Monk, who was smoking a very fine cigar, "but I beg leave to contradict you when you say that I do not give my daughter sufficient money. Gertrude has whatever she asks for, and, being fond of the simple life, is quite content."
"Pardon my contradicting you, but, thinking that you have but five hundred a year, and knowing your luxurious tastes, Miss Monk denies herself all, save the necessaries of life, so that you may have more money to spend. Did she know you were a millionaire----"
"I am not a millionaire," said Monk, snapping for the first time, as hitherto he had kept his temper in a most aggravating manner.
"I understood Lady Denham to say that you were," I reminded him politely.
"Like all women, Lady Denham exaggerates. I have a good many thousands, but I cannot call myself a millionaire."
"And the house in the country----"
"In Essex, remember. That is true enough."
"Oh, yes, though it can hardly be called an estate. But the shooting-box in Scotland?"
"I rented one last year for a time."