"You will find whiskey and a syphon in that cabinet, Mr. Clavering. I keep them for Judge Trent."
"Mr. Cla——" He came out of his daze. "You know who I am then?"
"But certainly. I am not as reckless as all that."
Her accent was slight but indubious, yet impossible to place. It might be that of a European who spoke many languages, or of an American with a susceptible ear who had lived the greater part of her life abroad. "I was driving one day with Judge Trent and saw you walking with Mr. Dinwiddie."
"Trent—ah!"
He had his first full look into those wise unfathomable eyes. Standing close to her, she seemed somewhat older than he had guessed her to be, although her face was unlined. Probably it was her remarkable poise, her air of power and security—and those eyes! What had not they looked upon? She smiled and poured broth from a thermos bottle.
"You are forgetting your whiskey and soda," she reminded him.
He filled his glass, took a sandwich and sank into the depths of a leather chair. She had seated herself on an upright throne-like chair opposite. Her black velvet gown was like a vase supporting a subtly moulded flower of dazzling fairness. She wore the three rows of pearls that had excited almost as much speculation as her mysterious self. As she drank her mild beverage she looked at him over the brim of her cup and once more appeared to be on the verge of laughter.
"Will you tell me who you are?" asked Clavering bluntly. "This is hardly fair, you know."
"Mr. Dinwiddie really managed to coax nothing from Judge Trent? He called three times, I understand."