She spoke with intense earnestness, her dark eyes fixed on Bruce Wright’s face.
“But promise me you won’t say this comes from me! Do you understand? There are reasons, very strong reasons, for this. Will you promise?”
“Of course!”
She took Bruce’s outstretched hand.
“I promise,” he said.
“You mustn’t go without tea,” said the girl. “Besides,”—she glanced at a little platinum watch on her wrist,—“there’s not another train until six. There is no need for you to start yet. I don’t like being left alone. Mother has one of her headaches, and Horace and Dr. Romain have gone to Stevenish. Come up to my sitting-room!”
She led the way out of the library, locking the door behind them, and together they went up to the Chinese boudoir where tea was laid on a low table before a bright fire. In the dainty room with its bright colours they seemed far removed from the tragedy which had darkened Harkings.
They had finished tea when a tap came at the door. Bude appeared. He cast a reproachful look at Bruce.
“Jay would be glad to have a word with you, Miss,” he said.
The girl excused herself and left the room. She was absent for about ten minutes. When she returned, she had a little furrow of perplexity between her brows. She walked over to the open fireplace and stood silent for an instant, her foot tapping the hearth-rug.