“No, Miss Mabin. He doesn’t have any letters sent here except under cover from his lawyer. They come in big envelopes, with the address stamped on the back, so I know. It looks as if he was in hiding or something, doesn’t it?” she added in a discreet whisper.
Mabin thought that it did, and the fact added to the fascination of the mystery.
“You don’t think he’s a detective, do you?” she whispered close to Langford’s ear.
“No, I’m quite sure he isn’t. Detectives aren’t gentlemen, and Mr. Banks is a gentleman, if ever there was one.”
“It’s very strange,” murmured Mabin vaguely, pondering on the fresh facts.
“You may well say that, Miss Mabin. I don’t know what to think myself. Some days he’ll sit all day long with his head in his hands without moving scarcely. Or he’ll sit poring over what looks like old letters and bits of things that I think must have been a woman’s somehow. But there, I feel like a sneak telling these things even to you; for it’s only by chance that I know anything about them myself, and for certain Mr. Banks didn’t think I should chatter about what I saw.”
“Ah, well, I know more than you do as it is,” said Mabin softly.
The words were still on her lips when a door opened behind them somewhere in the dark, cool hall, and Mabin started guiltily. She and Langford were standing just within the front doorway, out of hearing of any one in the house. But she forgot that she could not be heard, and felt confused and shy when a man’s voice, very low, very gentle, said:
“Langford, is that Miss Rose?”
“Yes, sir,” said Langford, as Mabin’s eyes at last saw which door it as that was open, and the servant passed her toward the drawing-room.