There comes a knock at the door, a peculiar knock. He is evidently acquainted with it, for he looks up eagerly and calls out, “Come in.”
A woman enters obedient to the summons. She is a woman with a plump, artificial-looking figure, her hair is yellow, and her eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows are dark. An unmistakable sign of powder and rouge affords to her cheeks an appearance of pinkness, which all women who decorate themselves in this manner verily believe looks natural and becoming. Alas! if they could only see themselves as others see them! She is overdressed is this woman, with plenty of rings on her fingers and jewellery about her, and her whole air unmistakably stamps her for what she is.
“Well?” inquires Mr. Trackem in an impatient voice, as she comes in. “How you dawdle, Victoire! Were they there?”
“Yes,” she replies at once. “I saw the duke, and a strange gentleman, and the girl Maggie, all go into the house.”
“Did you follow and hear what Eric said?” again asks Mr. Trackem. He never stops the work upon which he is engaged, in spite of his anxiety to hear what she has to say.
“How could I?” she answers peevishly. “I’m not a fairy who can become invisible at will. I saw them go in, that’s all, and then I hurried back here.”
“Curse him!” is all Mr. Trackem vouchsafes in reply, but he works away harder than ever.
Hanging over the back of a chair close to his table is a great-coat, and on the seat lies a pot hat, pair of gloves, and walking-stick. On the ground below the chair stands a small black business bag. Into this bag Mr. Trackem ever and anon commits a paper from out the heap that he is destroying.
There is a long pause. Then Victoire speaks.
“What are you going to do? I suppose you won’t be safe here now?” she inquires.