“Needless to say, I’m heartbroken,” he vowed, pressing her hand. “But perhaps I can hope that you’ll come again? I’ll talk as seriously as you want me to—I think I can understand your difficulty, and perhaps, with all due respect to Miss Girton, I’m the best qualified person in Baycombe to advise you. Perhaps you could even arrange to bring Mr. Templar with you? He needn’t know that I have your confidence.”
“I’ll try to get him to see you,” she averred truthfully.
“I’d be delighted. I’m very idle, and I hate ceremony, so we don’t have to bother about a formal invitation. Just drop in without notice—you’ll find me at your service.”
She thanked him, and he escorted her to the gate. She had just passed through it when an inspiration struck her. And the blow staggered her, so desperate and daring was the idea. But she carried it out before she had time to falter.
“By the way,” she said, “how’s Harry the Duke?”
The question sprang to her lips so artlessly and naturally, so à propos of nothing that they had been talking about for a long time, that she could not have contrived it better to take him off his guard. She was watching his face keenly, knowing how much depended on his reaction. But not a muscle twitched and his eyes did not change—she was studying those intently, well aware that the expression of the eyes is a hard thing for even the most masterly bluffer to control. He looked surprised, thought for a second.
“Why, whatever makes you ask that?” he inquired in frank bewilderment.
“Simon—Mr. Templar mentioned that you’d once sentenced a dangerous criminal of that name, and he said he thought the man might make an attempt on your life.”
He nodded.
“Yes, I remember—Templar said as much to me the first time we met. Harry the Duke swore from the dock that he’d get even with me. But I’ve heard the same threat several times, and I’m still alive, and it hasn’t spoilt my sleep.”