She was filled with dismay; she could not return the jewels for the young girl was apparently lost to them forever, and she would have to carry about with her always the unpleasant consciousness that she was, as Wilbur had said, the thief.
But it would not do to indulge in such thoughts now, and in explanation of what Sir Charles had just witnessed, she said:
“His lordship thought from my appearance that I was the child of some one whom he knew, and he spoke to me very abruptly.”
“My lord is very eccentric about some things; he is getting quite old, too, and people do not mind him,” replied Sir Charles, giving the matter no further thought.
CHAPTER XX
THAT VOICE
Isabel and her mother were jubilant over the result of Lady Peasewell’s drawing-room.
The occasion had been one of signal triumph for the former, for she had been universally declared the belle of the evening—the reigning star in all that brilliant company.
Not so much indeed on account of her superior beauty—for she could lay no claim to beauty of features—as her stately presence, fascinating address, and her rich and elegant attire.
Sir Charles Randal had undoubtedly been deeply impressed, for after his introduction to her he had scarce left her side during the remainder of the evening.
He called the next day, and the next he came to escort her to Buckingham Palace, the queen and her retinue being absent, and he having obtained passes to visit that royal residence so fraught with historic interest.