“Do not rise,” she said, quietly, as he made a movement to leave his seat. “Remain where you are. I have sent for you this evening, John, to converse with you on a matter of moment to both of us.”
Her voice had never seemed so serenely sweet as now. It thrilled him like the low tones of some exquisite musical instrument. But wondering what she could mean, and filled with strange wonder at her manner, he sat breathlessly gazing at her.
“What is it, Muriel?” he said at length, in a hushed voice.
“It is this, John,” she replied, still remaining motionless. “You have not seen Wentworth since I saw you last?”
“I have not, Muriel.”
“Nor Emily?”
“No.”
“I thought not,” she said, after a pause. “John, I talked with Wentworth this morning, and he told me of a conversation that passed recently between Mr. Witherlee and your master-at-arms—Monsieur Bagasse. Wentworth, for certain reasons which he will explain to you to-morrow, told you only a portion of that conversation as it was reported to him. There is a part which I want to tell you now.”
Harrington, who thought when she mentioned that she had spoken with Wentworth, that she was about to tell him the meaning of the strange speech the young artist had flung at Emily, looked at her, utterly puzzled to know what possible importance could attach to the conversation between Bagasse and Witherlee.
“The part I want to tell you, relates to you, John,” she continued. “Mr. Witherlee had led the fencing-master to suppose that you loved a lady whom he described as wealthy, of high social position, and much personal beauty.”