“Madam!”—he glared at me reproachfully—“you are probably not aware that I have asked Miss Wastneys to be my wife?”
“I was not aware, Mr Maplestone, that Miss Wastneys had accepted that offer.”
“She has not. That is just the point. If she had, I should not need help. But she is going to! That is why I am so anxious to find her—to prevent further waste of time.”
Braced against my cushions, I gasped in mingled exasperation and dismay. That tone of certainty impressed me against my will. It required an effort to preserve an unruffled appearance.
“I cannot give you any help, Mr Maplestone. To the best of my belief, you are wrong in your expectations.”
“Evelyn—Miss Wastneys is your niece, I believe?”
I bowed, mentally quoting the orphan’s qualification:—
“Sort of!”
“May I ask if she has confided in you—told you the history of our acquaintance?”
For one moment I hesitated, then:—