"No coffee," she said in a voice that was meant for the lounger in the drawing-room, "but I shall be very glad if you will let me have a cup of tea, strong tea, without milk or sugar."
The waiter bowed and retired. Beatrice sat there with her head back as if utterly worn out, though her heart was beating thick and fast. She looked up again presently as a waiter entered leaving the necessary things on a tray. It was not the same waiter, but a taller, fairer man who bowed as he held out the silver salver.
"The tea, Madame," he said. "May I be allowed to pour it out for you? Steady!"
The last word was no more than a whisper. Beatrice checked the cry that came to her lips.
"Mark," she murmured. "Mark, dear Mark, is it really you?"
The tall waiter smiled as he laid a hand on the girl's trembling fingers.
"Indeed it is, darling," he said. "For God's sake don't say I have come too late!"
CHAPTER III
From the point of view of the onlooker there could have been nothing suspicious in the attitude of the pseudo waiter with his tray. He could see Beatrice leaning back as if the pain in her head had made her oblivious to everything else. As a matter of fact, Beatrice was racking her brains for some way out of the difficulty. The self-elected waiter could not stay there much longer, in any case, at least not unless the suspicious Richford took it in his head to return to the dinner-table again.