With pale, anxious face, heavy eyes, and slow, dragging steps, Leslie appeared before them, and extended her hand to Mr. Follingsbee, while she cast a glance of anxious inquiry toward the seeming stranger.
“How is Archibald?” asked the lawyer, briskly.
“Sinking; failing every moment,” replied Leslie, sadly.
“And there is no news of the little one?”
“Not a word.”
There was a sob in her throat, and Mr. Follingsbee, who hated a scene, turned abruptly toward his companion, saying:
“Ours is a business call, Leslie, and as the business is Mr. Stanhope’s not mine, I will retire to the library while it is being transacted.”
And without regarding her stare of surprise, he walked coolly from the room, leaving Leslie and the disguised detective face to face.
“Is it possible!” she said, after a moment’s silence; “is this Mr. Stanhope!”
The middle-aged gentleman smiled and came toward her.