Here she took her new chaperone’s arm and gave it a little suggestive squeeze, by way of assuring her that all was as it should be,—and with another bewildering smile, and a reiterated “Do come!” she passed on, with her banker (who had become a little stiff and standoffish at the approach of Captain Cleeve) and Mrs. Beresford, and so disappeared.
Cleeve tugged vexedly at his moustache.
“A ‘near relative,’ is she? Then she knows! Or—perhaps not! She’s too young—not more than eighteen at most. And the old Diana must be quite forty-five! Hang it all!—this girl might be her daughter—but old Diana never married—just like some old maids ‘faithful to a memory!’” He laughed. “By Jove! I remember now! She got drowned last year—old Diana did!—drowned somewhere in Devonshire. I read about it in the papers and thought what a jolly good thing! Poor old Diana! And this little beauty is a ‘near relative,’ is she? Well—well!—we’ll see! To-morrow!”
But when to-morrow came, it brought him no elucidation of the mystery. Diana had left the hotel. The manageress explained that through Mrs. Beresford she had heard of a very charming furnished flat which she thought would suit her, and which she had suddenly decided to take, and she had gone to make the final arrangements.
“She left this note for you,” said the manageress, handing Cleeve a letter. “She remembered she had asked you to call on her this afternoon.”
He took the letter with a sudden qualm of “nerves.” It was simple enough.
“Dear Captain Cleeve” (it ran),
“So sorry to put you off, but Mrs. Beresford and I are taking a flat and we shall be rather busy for the next few days, putting things in order. After that will you come and see me at the above address?
“Yours sincerely,
“Diana May.”
That was all,—but while reading it, Captain the Honourable’s head swam round and round as if he were revolving in a wheel. For though the letter purported to come from a “young” Diana, the handwriting—the painfully familiar handwriting—was that of the “old” Diana!