She had caught sight of the man in the road who had just come abreast of the phaeton.
At that moment the man, who had been observing her for some moments, looked at her with a sardonic smile, lifted his hat, bowed deeply, and murmuring familiarly:
"Good-evening, Queenie," passed insolently on.
Captain Ernscliffe grew ashen white. Something like an imprecation was smothered between his firmly-cut lips.
"Good Heaven, Queenie!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible that you know that man?"
She did not speak, she could not. She only stared at him speechlessly, her lips parted in terror, her breath coming and going in quick gasps like one dying.
"Do you know who and what that man is?" he reiterated, hoarsely. "Queenie, it is Leon Vinton, the most notorious gambler and roue in the city! And he dared to speak to you! What did he mean by it? You surely do not know him. Tell me?"
Still she did not speak. It seemed to her that her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
She had thought that her enemy was dead—had she not seen him lying cold and still, with his heart's blood staining the snowy earth? Yet there he walked, smiling, evil, triumphant. The horror of the sight struck her dumb.