“Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't know any one was here. I merely wanted—”
Mr. Sleighter glanced over his shoulder.
“Mr. Sleighter,” said Mr. Gwynne. “My wife.”
It was not his tone, however, that brought Mr. Sleighter hurriedly to his feet with his hat in his hand. It was something in the bearing of the little lady standing behind him.
“Pleased to meet you, ma'am. I hope you are well,” he said, bowing elaborately before her.
“Thank you very much, I am quite well. I have heard a great deal about you, Mr. Sleighter. I am glad to meet you.”
Mr. Sleighter held her hand a moment while her eyes rested quietly and kindly, if searchingly, upon his face. This was the man who had profited by her husband's loss. Was he too a highway robber? Mr. Sleighter somehow felt as if his soul were being exposed to a searchlight. It made him uncomfortable.
“It's a fine day, ma'am,” he remarked, seeking cover for his soul in conversation. “A little warm for the time,” he continued, wiping his forehead with a highly coloured silk handkerchief.
“Won't you sit down, Mr. Sleighter? Do you find it warm? I thought there was quite a chilly wind to-day. But then you are more accustomed to the wind than I.”
The searching eyes were holding him steadily, but the face was kindly and full of genuine interest.