"And yet?" I echoed, as she paused.
She turned away with a little gesture of despair. "I pray to God," she said wearily, "that after to-night we shall never meet again."
"There is a good chance of your prayer being granted," I remarked—"at least, if one may judge by my experience yesterday."
She looked up quickly. "What do you mean?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Only that a butler I engaged in the morning made a highly creditable attempt to murder me in the middle of the night."
I saw her face turn pale. "Oh!" she said, and she laid her hand upon her breast. "Were you—were you hurt?" she faltered.
"No," I said, "I wasn't hurt. I am afraid the butler was, rather; but that was his fault. It's so difficult to see what one's doing in the dark." Then I paused and looked her full in the face. "The curious thing is," I added, "that the man was sent to me with excellent references from Sir Henry Tregattock."
She met my gaze without flinching, but the last vestige of colour had left her cheeks.
"Sir Henry Tregattock?" she repeated in a kind of mechanical way.
"That's right," I went on, assuming a cheerful, confidential tone. "I got the fellow through Seagrave's—those people just off Hanover Square. There was no mistake about it, because I'd been round there myself in the morning, and Seagrave had assured me that not only was the reference all that it ought to be, but that he had rung up Tregattock, and had it confirmed over the telephone."