A CRY FOR HELP
A dusky flush rose to his face, and his blue eyes flashed ominously. I noticed that a little vein swelled and pulsed in his temple, close by the strip of flesh-colored plaster that covered the wound on his forehead.
But, although he appeared almost equally angry and surprised, he held himself well in hand.
“Truly you seem in possession of much information, Mr. Wynn,” he said slowly. “I must ask you to explain yourself. Do you know this lady?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know she is in danger?”
“Chiefly from my own observation.”
“You know her so well?” he asked incredulously. “Where have you met her?”
“In London.”
The angry gleam vanished from his eyes, and he stood frowning in perplexed thought, resting one of his fine, muscular white hands on the back of a tawdry gilt chair.