“Yes; five years. Thank you for coming, but I am sorry you should have seen it.”
“Why?”
“Every one should keep guard over his own skeleton.”
She was looking at him now.
“You look very ill,” she said curtly. “Where have you been?”
“I was kidnapped,” he said, with a short laugh, “and then I got typhoid. The monks nursed me.”
“You were in a monastery?”
“Yes; in Brittany.”
She was idly arranging the cups and saucers with her left hand, which she seemed desirous of bringing under his notice; but he could look at nothing but her face.
“Then,” she said, “it would have been impossible to find you?”