Rita Irvin shuddered slightly and drew her furs more closely about her shoulders.
“Shall we change the conversation, dear?” whispered Margaret.
“No, please,” said Rita. “You cannot imagine how curious I am to learn the true details—for, as Monte says, we have been out of touch with things, and although we were so intimately concerned, neither of us really knows the inner history of the affair to this day. Of course, we know that Kazmah was a dummy figure, posed in the big ebony chair. He never moved, except to raise his hand, and this was done by someone seated in the inner room behind the figure. But who was seated there?”
Seton glanced inquiringly at his wife, and she nodded, smiling.
“Right-o!” he said. “If you will excuse me for a moment I will get my notes. Hello, here’s Gray!”
A little two-seater came bowling along the road from Cairo, and drew up beneath the balcony. It was the car which had belonged to Margaret when in practice in Dover Street. Quentin Gray jumped out, waving his hand cheerily to the quartette above, and went in at the doorway. Seton walked through the flat and admitted him.
“Sorry I’m late!” cried Gray, impetuous and boyish as ever, although he looked older and had grown very bronzed. “The chief detained me.”
“Go through to them,” said Seton informally. “I’m getting my notes; we’re going to read the thrilling story of the Kazmah mystery before dinner.”
“Good enough!” cried Gray. “I’m in the dark on many points.”
He had outlived his youthful infatuation, although it was probable enough that had Rita been free he would have presented himself as a suitor without delay. But the old relationship he had no desire to renew. A generous self-effacing regard had supplanted the madness of his earlier passion. Rita had changed too; she had learned to know herself and to know her husband.