Darke made no reply for some moments. He was gazing with knit brows upon the floor. Then he raised his head.
“You return to the subject of your friend,” he said, coldly.
“Yes. The subject is agreeable.”
“Well, I can give you intelligence of him—unless Swartz has anticipated me.”
“What intelligence?”
“Your friend Mohun is in love—again!”
The woman’s face flushed suddenly.
“With whom?” she said.
“Ah! there is the curious part of the affair, madam!” returned Darke.
And in a low tone he added:—