Mrs. Hamlyn gave him his tea in silence, and buttered a dainty bit of toast to tempt him to eat. But he shook his head.
"I cannot, Eliza. Nothing but tea this morning."
"I am sorry you are ill," she said, by-and-by. "I fear it hurts you to talk; but I want to have it out with you."
"Have it out with me!" cried he, in real or feigned surprise. "Have what out with me?"
"Oh, you know, Philip. About that woman who has been watching the house these two days; evidently watching for you."
"But I told you I knew nothing about her: who she is, or what she is, or what she wants. I really do not know."
Well, so far that was true. But all the while a sick fear lay on his heart that he did know; or, rather, that he was destined to know very shortly.
"When I told you her hair was like threads of fine, pale gold, you seemed to start, Philip, as if you knew some girl or woman with such hair, or had known her."
"I daresay I have known a score of women with such hair. My dear little sister who died, for instance."
"Do not attempt to evade the subject," was the haughty reprimand. "If—"