Her too lustrous eyes—even Mrs. Wolfstein’s eyes looked over-dressed—devoured Lady Holme, and her large, curving features were almost riotously interrogative.
“Yes,” Lady Holme said. “Quite.”
“She’s startled everybody.”
“Startled!—why?”
“Oh, well—she has! There’s money in it, don’t you think?”
“Henry,” who had accompanied his wife, and who was standing sideways at the back of the box looking like a thief in the night, came a step forward at the mention of money.
“I’m afraid I’m no judge of that. Your husband would know better.”
“Plenty of money,” said “Henry,” in a low voice that seemed to issue from the bridge of his nose; “it ought to bring a good six thousand into the house for the four weeks. That’s—for Miss Schley—for the Syndicate—ten per cent. on the gross, and twenty-five per cent.—”
He found himself in mental arithmetic.
“The—swan with the golden eggs!” said Lady Holme, lightly, turning once more to Leo Ulford. “You mustn’t kill Miss Schley.”