"Is that you, Mallett?" asked Dysart coldly, as the former appeared in the light for an instant and turned back again with a curt gesture.
"Yes. I want you to step over here among the trees, where nobody can interrupt us."
Dysart followed more slowly; came to a careless halt:
"Well, what the devil do you want?" he demanded insolently.
"I'll tell you. I've had an encounter with a mask who mistook me for you.... And she has said—several things—under that impression. She still believes that I am you. I asked her to wait for me over there by those oaks. Do you see where I mean?" He pointed and Dysart nodded coolly. "Well, then, I want you to go back there—find her, and act as though it had been you who heard what she said, not I."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly that. The girl ought never to know that what she said was heard and—and understood, Dysart, by any man in the world except the blackguard I'm telling this to. Now, do you understand?"
He stepped nearer:
"The girl is Sylvia Quest. Now, do you understand, damn you!"
A stray glimmer from the distant lanterns fell across Dysart's masked visage. The skin around the mouth was loose and ashy, the dry lips worked.