“Search him, Miriam,” said Wraile curtly. The girl passed her hands lightly over Ryland’s pockets.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Bit rash aren’t you, young fellow, to come burgling without a gun?” asked Wraile lightly. “What’s your game, anyway? There’s no till in a Finance Company’s office.”
Ryland paid no attention to him. He was staring in amazement at the girl beside him.
“Good God; are you Daphne?” he said at last in a strangled voice.
Wraile searched his face closely and evidently gathered that surprise or misunderstanding would be waste of time.
“From which I take it,” he said, “that you’re Master Fratten, the Banker’s son—or bastard, or whatever you are. I had a shrewd suspicion of it before you spoke, though I hadn’t had the good fortune to see you before. Yes, that’s Daphne—and that makes your position a bit awkward—you know rather more than is convenient.”
Ryland stared at him, but soon turned his eyes back to “Daphne.”
“What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “I hardly recognize you.”
“Wonderful what a difference a black wig makes,” replied Mrs. Wraile lightly. “Our acquaintance was so short that I’m quite surprised at your recognizing me at all.”