He was eager and voluble now. She seemed to be considering—he was making an impression. He might come out all right after all! His volatile spirits rose.
"You see," he said, "Austen never overlooks anything. He's as likely as not to cut me off entirely and leave me high and dry. I—I thought perhaps you would—you might get him to do the decent thing and help me out of the hole. If I once got straight I'd stay so, but I want a fair allowance. It isn't as if he had to work for what I spend. He ought to give it to me. I can't go on as I am; I'm in debt—in deep. I can't take up my chits at the club. I'm living in Tokyo now—in a Japanese house in Aoyama that a friend has loaned me—because I haven't the face to show myself in Yokohama!"
He twirled his cap and looked up at her. "That reminds me," he said, with a sudden recollection. "Austen was there the other day when I was away, and afterward I found something of yours which he must have dropped. Here it is. It has your name on it." He handed her a small locket with a broken chain.
She took it with an exclamation. She was staring at him strangely. "This house you speak of—whose is it?"
"It belongs to Mr. Daunt."
"You mean—you say—that you have been living in it?"
"Yes. Why?"
She had risen slowly to her feet, her face hotly suffused. "Then—then Haru—" She spoke in a dry whisper.
He started, looking at her with quick, resentful suspicion. "What do you know about Haru?"
"Never mind! Never mind that! I want to know. Haru—she is—Mr. Daunt was not—"