Christopher examined it and gave a gasp. It was a bold sketch of two men playing cards at a table with a lamp behind them. The expression on the players’ faces was defined and forcible, but it was not their artistic merit that startled him, but their identity. One—the tolerant winner—was Peter himself—the other—the easy loser—was Aymer Aston.
So Aymer did know of Mrs. Masters’ existence, knew her well enough for her to make this intimate likeness of him.
“Was it done here?” he asked slowly.
“No, she brought it with her. I don’t know who the other gentleman is, but it’s a beautiful picture of the master, isn’t it? so life-like.”
He looked again round the room, fighting again with his desire to search for more traces of its late owner, and then grew hot with shame at his curiosity. He left Mrs. Eliot rather abruptly and wandered out of the house, but the unknown mistress of the place haunted him, glided before him across the smooth lawns, he could almost hear the rustle of her dress on the gravel, and then recollected with relief it was only the memory of the old game he used to play at Aston House with his dead mother, transferred by some mental suggestion to Stormly Park. Presently he saw the bulky form of Peter Masters on the steps and joined him reluctantly.
“I want to see you, Christopher,” said Peter as he approached. “Come into my room. I shan’t be able to go to London this week to buy the car, so you must stay until Monday and go up with me then,” he announced, and without waiting for assent or protest plunged into his subject with calculated abruptness.
“This road business of yours, is there money in it?”
“I think so. It is not done yet.”
“How long will it take you to perfect it?”