“A lady? Is it Miss Penwynn?”
“No,” said a voice which made Tregenna sink back in his chair; “it is not Miss Penwynn;” and Madge Mullion, closely veiled, and looking tall in the thick cloak she wore, walked straight into the room.
Chynoweth hesitated for a moment, and then softly withdrew, nodding his head.
“So the devil is going to get his due, eh?” he said to himself. “I’d give something if I could go down to listening at key-holes, but I can’t do it—I can’t do it—I can’t do it!” and he went back to his desk.
“You here, Miss Mullion?” exclaimed Tregenna, making an effort to recover his composure.
“Yes, I am here,” she said, very sternly; and Tregenna noticed that it seemed to be no longer the weak, vain, flattery-loving girl who was speaking, but a woman made worldly and strong by trouble.
“And what can I do for you, Miss Mullion?” he said, coolly. “Will you take a seat?”
She stood gazing at him without speaking—without moving, while his dark, handsome face grew calmer and more composed.
“I came—to ask you—a question,” she said at last, in measured tones; and, as she spoke, she pressed one hand upon her breast, as if to aid her in speaking coolly.
“Certainly,” he said politely; “but this is not my office, Miss Mullion, and I have no right to transact legal business here.”