“Yes.”
“Then I am Richard Stanhope.”
CHAPTER VIII.
VERNET “CALLS A TURN.”
Leslie Warburton had replaced her mask, but the face she concealed was engraven upon the memory of her vis-a-vis.
A pure pale face, with a firm chin; a rare red mouth, proud yet sensitive; a pair of brown tender eyes, with a touch of sadness in their depths; and a broad low brow, over which clustered thick waves of sunny auburn. She is slender and graceful, carrying her head proudly, and with inherent self-poise in gait and manner.
She glances about her once more, and then says, drawing still nearer the disguised detective:
“I have been looking for you, Mr. Stanhope, and we have met at a fortunate moment. Nearly all the guests have arrived, and everybody is dancing; we may hope for a few undisturbed moments now. You—you have no reason for thinking yourself watched, or your identity suspected, I hope?”
“None whatever, madam. Have you any fears of that sort?”