'You have eight days, haven't you? Yes, just eight days. You ought to keep as quiet as possible. We are all doing our best; but, after all, success depends greatly upon yourself, you know.'
The voice, as always, seemed to fondle her, but Alma's ear detected the usual insincerity. Mrs. Strangeways spoke in much the same way to numbers of people, yet not quite so caressingly. Some interest she undoubtedly had to serve by this consistent display of affection, and with all but certainty Alma divined it. She shrank from the woman; it cost her an unceasing effort not to betray dislike, or even hostility.
'Of course, you saw last week's West End?' pursued the hostess, smiling. 'You know whose doing that was?'
'I only guessed that it might be Mr. Redgrave's kindness.'
'I have the same suspicion. He was here the other day—we talked about you. You haven't seen him since then?'
'No.'
'He hinted to me—just a little anxiety. I hardly know whether I ought to speak of it.'
Alma looked an interrogation as unconcerned as she could make it, but did not open her lips.
'It was with reference to—your man of business. It seems he has heard something—I really don't know what—not quite favourable to Mr. Dymes. I shall not offend you, dear?'
'I don't take offence, Mrs. Strangeways,' Alma answered, with a slight laugh to cover her uneasiness. 'It's so old-fashioned.'