"You were--to your shame and disgrace. Don't behave so foolishly, Robert. I don't know what put him into your head in the first place."
"Heron's voice is so like his--and the looks of Webster."
Mrs. Marshall turned as pale as her swarthy skin permitted, and the fan in her hand shook. "What about him?" she asked.
"He is like----"
"I know who he is like," she interrupted, sharply. "A mere chance resemblance. Come back with me."
"I am going to bed," was the only response, and, turning abruptly, Mr. Marshall fled up the stairs, leaving his wife gazing after him with a black frown on her face.
"I wonder if that young man--but no; it's impossible. Sebastian," she spoke of her brother, "would not go so far." And after composing herself with a glass of water she returned to the drawing-room.
By this time Webster was seated beside Ruth, who was shewing him a book of photographs. Geoffrey Heron was talking to Mr. Cass, and casting glances at the two young people who were getting on much too well for his liking.
Suddenly the whole room was startled by a cry. It came from Neil, who, with a white face, was staring at a photograph.
"What's the matter?" asked his host, hurrying towards him. "Are you ill?"