“Has he a long journey to make in returning to London?” she asked.
“Yes—all the way from Devonshire.”
“From South Devonshire?”
“No. North Devonshire—Clovelly.”
The smile suddenly left her face. She put another question—without quite concealing the effort that it cost her, or the anxiety with which she waited for the reply.
“I know something of the neighborhood of Clovelly,” she said. “I wonder whether Father Benwell is visiting any friends of mine there?”
“I am not able to say, Miss Eyrecourt. The reverend Father’s letters are forwarded to the hotel—I know no more than that.”
With a gentle inclination of her head, she turned toward other guests—looked back—and with a last little courteous attention offered to him, said, “If you like music, Mr. Penrose, I advise you to go to the picture gallery. They are going to play a Quartet by Mozart.”
Penrose thanked her, noticing that her voice and manner had become strangely subdued. She made her way back to the room in which the hostess received her guests. Lady Loring was, for the moment, alone, resting on a sofa. Stella stooped over her, and spoke in cautiously lowered tones.
“If Father Benwell comes here to-night,” she said, “try to find out what he has been doing at Clovelly.”