Favoured by the calm night, and the natural law of acoustics, Mr Swinton heard every word that was said—even to the softest whisper.
In order to secure himself against being seen, he had withdrawn behind the Venetian shutter of his own window, and stood with his ear against the open lath-work, listening with all the intentness of a spy.
When the dialogue came to an end, he craned out, and saw that the young lady had gone inside, but that the mother still remained standing in the balcony.
Once more quietly drawing back, and summoning the valet to his side, he talked for some minutes in a low, hurried tone—as if giving the servant some instructions of an important nature.
Then putting on his hat, and throwing a light surtout over his shoulders, he hastened out of the room.
The servant followed; but not until an interval had elapsed.
In a few seconds after, the Englishman might have been seen sauntering out upon the balcony with a careless air, and taking his stand within a few feet of where the rich widow stood leaning over the rail.
He made no attempt to address her. Without introduction, there would have been a certain rudeness in it. Nor was his face toward her, but to the sea, as if he had stopped to contemplate the light upon the Cormorant Rock, gleaming all the more brilliantly from the contrasted darkness of the night.
At that moment a figure of short stature appeared behind him, giving a slight cough, as if to attract his attention. It was the servant.
“My lord,” said the latter, speaking in a low tone—though loud enough to be heard by Mrs Girdwood.