“She wouldn’t come so late as this.”
“I don’t know,” said Ridsdale, eagerly. “She comes at all hours. With your headache she would bore you to death.” He leaned forward in his chair and spoke very softly. “And, remember, my last evening! You—you promised that you would play to me.”
Cynthia Beckford hesitated a moment, and then told the butler that she was not at home.
“Yes, my lady. Not at home to anybody?”
“No.”
The flicker of colour showed in her pale cheeks as she added explanatorily to Ridsdale, “It can’t be anybody of importance.”
Mr. Ridsdale sat listening. Then he got up, and spoke with an impatience that he did not attempt to conceal.
“That fool has let some one in—a man!”
Yes, a man’s heavy footstep in the hall, and a man’s voice—loud and assured, not making polite inquiries, but issuing curt directions.
“I have left my tackle and luggage at Euston. Get a cab presently and go and fetch it. Take this ticket.”