One evening she asked him point-blank:
“Did you pay for my first quarter’s lessons with Razounov?”
She expected the blow by its very suddenness would tell. He started very slightly.
“Me?” he said, in a tone of bewilderment which, if not genuine, was at least consummate acting. “Me?—I don’t understand. What do you——”
“Well, somebody did,” she replied curtly, annoyed that her blow had been parried. “And I thought it might be you.”
“Good heavens, no!” he said, and at that moment she did not know whether to believe him or not.
§ 4
He had been clever up to then. Afterwards he became too clever. One of those periodic spasms of brilliance overwhelmed him.
The next morning she received a letter, typewritten, plain paper and envelope, with the non-committal postmark: London, W. It ran:
The person who has undertaken the expenses of Miss Weston’s musical training wishes it to be understood that he desires to remain anonymous. Should he be questioned on the point by anyone he will feel himself justified in adopting any attitude, even one involving departures from the truth, which seems to him best calculated to preserve the anonymity he so earnestly desires. Hence it is obvious that enquiry, however persistent, can elicit no reliable information.