Chloe laughed aloud. His resistance—and his weakness—were both so amusing. She thought of the skill—the peremptory smiling skill—with which she had beguiled him into the garden, on the day when the young couple paid their first call at Upcott. First, the low-spoken words at the back of the drawing-room, while Mrs. Barnes and the Duchess were skirmishing—
"I must speak to you. Something that concerns another person—something urgent."
Whereupon, unwilling and rather stern compliance on the man's part—the handsome face darkened with most unnecessary frowns. And in the garden, the short colloquy between them—"Of course, I see—you haven't forgiven me! Never mind! I am doing this for someone else—it's a duty." Then abruptly—"You still have three of my letters."
Amusing again—his shock of surprise, his blundering denials! He always was the most unmethodical and unbusiness-like of mortals—poor Roger! She heard her own voice in reply. "Oh yes, you have. I don't make mistakes about such things. Do you remember the letter in which I told you about that affair of Theresa Weightman?"
A stare—an astonished admission. Precisely!
"Well, she's in great trouble. Her husband threatens absurdities. She has always confided in me—she trusts me, and I can't have that letter wandering about the world."
"I certainly sent it back!"
"No—you never sent it back. You have three of mine. And you know how careless you are—how you leave things about. I was always on tenterhooks. Look again, please! You must have some idea where they might be."
Perplexity—annoyance!
"When we sold the London house, all papers and documents were sent down here. We reserved a room—which was locked up."