She sat thinking of these things—reasoning with herself upon the utter improbability of the identity of the two men, yet yielding again and again to that conviction which had forced itself upon her, sudden and irresistible, in the Windsor street,—while the Signora bustled about between the two rooms, stopping to cast a stolen glance now and then at Eleanor Vane’s thoughtful face.
Mr. Richard Thornton came in by-and-by. The Phœnix was closed as to dramatic performances, but the scene-painter’s work never stopped. The young man gave utterance to a cry of delight as he saw the figure sitting in his aunt’s easy-chair.
“Nell!” he exclaimed, “has the world come to an end, and have you dropped into your proper position in the general smash! Eleanor, how glad I am to see you!”
He held out both his hands. Miss Vane rose and, mechanically, put her white fingers in the weatherbeaten-looking palms held out to receive them.
In that moment the scene-painter saw that something had happened.
“What’s the matter, Nell?” he cried, eagerly.
“Hush, Dick,” said the girl in a whisper; “I don’t want the Signora to know.”
“You don’t want the Signora to know what?”
“I have found that man.”
“What man?”