Even if his own fanciful theory were correct Gerard did not like the intrusion of a man into the story. He could not deceive himself about that. There had been a man in the case, apparently young, for he appeared to be as active as herself, and—there had been that glittering thing which he knew, after all, to be a diamond.
What had the professional journalist to do with diamonds? What had she to do with a man?
Gerard resented his own fears, his own doubts, and, determined to solve the mystery at no matter what cost, on the following afternoon he dared to call at Lady Jennings’ house, and to ask boldly for Miss Davison.
“Miss Davison is not here at present, sir,” said the footman.
“She lives here does she not?” asked Gerard.
“Oh, yes, sir, she lives here for the most part. But she has to spend some time with Mrs. Davison at Brighton. She’s been down there for the past three weeks, sir.”
Gerard felt as if he had had a blow. For it was on the previous night that he had seen, or believed he saw, Rachel in the crowd, and now he was told that she was at Brighton!
He was about to retire, very dissatisfied, and without knowing what step he should take next to solve the problem which distressed him, when a door opened into the hall and Lady Jennings, whom he remembered, having seen her at Burlington House, came out and asked him to come in.
She was a delightful old lady, with silver-white hair and keen eyes, who dressed perfectly, and who was a little queen in her way.
She was gowned in silver-gray satin with that profusion of rich-toned old lace which every elderly lady who cares for her appearance should never omit from her wardrobe. A knot of lace which yet was not a cap was fastened in her beautiful white hair by two large-headed amber and gold pins, and the rest of the jewelry she wore was old-fashioned, but appropriate and handsome.