Miss Davison he soon discovered. She was the only person there who appeared to be in the least changed since the previous Sunday. Pale she always was, but now she was ghastly; while the dark rings under her eyes told an eloquent tale of sleepless nights, and a peculiar haggard look about the outline of her face betrayed to his eyes, keen where she was concerned, the fact that she had been rendered uneasy and unhappy by the occurrences of the momentous day.
He did not at once approach her: he was particularly anxious not to seem in a great hurry to speak to her alone, and besides, he felt very diffident as to her reception of the news he had for her.
Would she take the warning quietly and disappear in time to escape the general disaster? Or would she betray him, and make use of the information he had for her in the interests of the Van Santens?
Gerard could not make up his mind on this point; and he was in a state of great distress as to whether he was about to render her a great service or to render one to the American swindlers whom he dreaded to find were her accomplices.
But everything must be risked for her sake. In the meantime he looked carefully about him, in the hope of discovering among those of the guests whom he did not know the detective who was to be there on the information of Sir William.
The task was an easy one. There was only one strange face there, that of a man with a heavy black mustache who was, Gerard thought, unmistakably a police officer in disguise.
This fact ascertained, he lost no time in approaching Miss Davison, and, after the first greetings, said to her in a low voice—
“Don’t look shocked, I beg. I have to warn you that there is a police detective here to-day. Don’t ask me how I know; but you may depend upon its being the truth.”
Miss Davison bowed her head in grave silence.
“I was sure of it!” she said in a low voice.