When Hector Laroche was ushered into Sir William Ridsdale’s room, his eyes blinked involuntarily. The change from the dusky twilight outside to the brilliantly lighted apartment in which he now found himself fairly dazzled him for the first few seconds.
There were but two people in the room. At a large square table, covered with papers and documents written and printed, sat the baronet. At a smaller table, a little distance away, and busily writing, sat Colonel Woodruffe—‘the man of the portrait,’ as Laroche muttered to himself the moment his eyes lighted on him. Was it possible that this other man, this white-haired gentleman, whose gaze was bent so keenly on him from under his bushy brows, was the great Sir William himself? He remembered to have seen this person on more than one occasion walking about the grounds in the company of Miss Loraine, but he had never troubled himself to inquire whom he might be. If he were really Sir William, then had he been at the hotel for two or three days, and he, Laroche, had never discovered that fact. What a blunder!
The Frenchman placed his right hand over his heart and bowed obsequiously; then he advanced with slow, cat-like movements towards the table, but came to a stand while he was yet some three or four paces away. The keen eyes of the white-haired gentleman, fixed so persistently on him, made him feel dreadfully uncomfortable. He had a great dislike to being stared at in that way.
‘You are Hector Laroche, ex-déporté No. 897; and I am Sir William Ridsdale.’
For once his start of surprise was thoroughly genuine. ‘How! Monsieur knows’——
‘Everything. Madame De Vigne has disclosed to me the whole dreadful story of her married life. Her I pity from the bottom of my heart; but for you, scoundrel, I have no feeling save one of utter loathing and contempt!’
‘Monsieur’—— whined Laroche with an indescribable writhing of his long lean body.
‘Silence, fellow!’ said Sir William sternly. ‘It is for you to listen, and not to speak.’ He rose and crossed to Colonel Woodruffe and spoke to him in a low voice.
The baronet returned to his seat. ‘It is not my intention to say a great deal to you, Monsieur Laroche,’ resumed Sir William; ‘I wish to rid myself of your presence as soon as may be; and what I have to say will be very much to the purpose.’
Laroche writhed again, but did not speak. Events had taken a turn so utterly unexpected by him, the ground had been so completely cut from under his feet, that he seemed to have nothing left to say.