"That doesn't prove that there was love between them."
"It proves that there was communication and understanding," retorted Torry tartly.
"Well," said Frank, wearied of the discussion, "we are only spinning ropes of sand in talking theory. What about Blake? Can I tell him the case, and say you'll let him assist?"
"Yes," replied Torry promptly. "He may help us by revealing the secret doings of Lydia Hargone."
"He'll never do that," rejoined Darrel coldly. "Blake is a gentleman, and is engaged to Miss Hargone."
"I dare say. I don't say that he'll assist us purposely in that way; but, my dear sir, your friend is a chatterbox and can't keep a secret. He'll say things he shouldn't say, and will regret revealing them afterwards. Tell him all, enlist his services, and," added Torry significantly, "let him talk."
"It seems rather a shabby thing to do," said Darrel reluctantly.
"All is fair in love and war and detective work, sir. Your conscience is too fine-spun."
"I am afraid it is," replied Darrel gloomily. "However, I promised to help you and I shall keep my promise."
That evening, as Torry was off on a man-hunt of his own, and did not require Darrel's assistance, the young man sat down, as usual, to his work. But, in spite of his resolution to write, he was unable to do so, for the beautiful face of Maria was constantly before his eyes, and her deep rich voice sounded always in his ears. Her image was indelibly impressed on his mind, and, notwithstanding all endeavours, he could not rid himself of that charming phantom. In place of scribbling realistic prose, he felt more inclined to compose amorous poetry, for he had entered into the kingdom of love, lured thither by a woman's loveliness, and was enduring, in no very patient spirit, the torments which are there inflicted on new-comers. A woman's face, a woman's voice, a woman's absence: of such parts were his torments composed.