“But not—not——”
Even smooth-tongued Mrs. Leland was at a loss.
“Not Fitzroy, who left us a minute ago. This man’s name is Dale. One wonders, though, how you knew—why you doubted,” cried Cynthia in sharp discernment.
“Pray why did Fitzroy leave you a minute ago?” was all that the other woman could find to say.
“He had to return to London. But, there—it is I who ought to ask questions. Let us go inside. I want to get some of the grit out of my eyes and hair; then I shall become an absolute mark of interrogation—so I warn you. Of course, I am delighted to see you; but queer things have happened, and I am pining to have them cleared up. When did you see father last? Is he still in London?”
Mrs. Leland answered, with freer speech now, but in her heart she was saddened by Medenham’s duplicity. Six months earlier he and the Earl had dined at the villa she was occupying at San Remo for the winter. She then took a great liking to him on account of his shy and reticent but singularly pleasing manners. She was prepared to laugh at the present escapade when she had discussed it with him that night. Now he had fled, doubtless through fear. That was bad. That looked ugly and mean. Most certainly Peter Vanrenen had acted rightly in bringing her post-haste from Trouville. She must use all her skill if mischief were to be avoided.