My lady had ascended to her room immediately upon the departure of the American, the preceding day, and had been invisible ever since. That convenient feminine excuse, headache, had accounted for it, but Sybilla Silver knew better. She had expected her to breakfast this morning, and she began to think Mr. Parmalee's little mystery was more of a mystery than even she had dreamed. The man's arrival gave her her cue.
"Our American friend is a devotee of art, it seems," she said, with a light laugh. "He lets no grass grow under his feet. I had no easy task to restrain his artistic ardor during your absence. I never knew such an inquisitive person, either; he did nothing but ask questions."
"A national trait," Sir Everard responded, with a shrug. "Americans are all inquisitive, which accounts for their go-aheadativeness, I dare say."
"Mr. Parmalee's questions took a very narrow range; they only comprised one subject—you and my lady."
The young baronet looked up in haughty amaze.
"His curiosity on this subject was insatiable; your most minute biography would not have satisfied him. About Lady Kingsland particularly—in point of fact, I thought he must have known her in New York, his questions were so pointed, and I asked him so directly."
"And what did he say?"
"Oh, he said no," replied Sybilla, lightly, "but in such a manner as led me to infer yes. However, it was evident, yesterday, that my lady had never set eyes on him before; but I did fancy, for an instant, she somehow recognized that picture."
"What picture?" asked the baronet, sharply.
"That last portrait he showed her," Miss Silver answered. "Yet that may have been only fancy, too."