“Certainly,” he said, smiling. “You are always frank with me, are you not?”
“Well, I was thinking of a man who was once my friend—a man whom I believe you have cause to remember,” she replied in a meaning tone—“a man named Felice Solaro!”
“Felice Solaro!” he gasped, quickly starting back, his cheeks blanching as he repeated the name. “If Felice Solaro is a friend of yours, Miss Mary, then he has probably told you the truth—the ghastly truth?” he cried hoarsely, as his face fell. “He has revealed to you the mystery concerning General Sazarac! Tell me—tell me what allegation has he made against me?”
Chapter Thirty Seven.
At Orton Court Again.
George Macbean stood at the window of the rector’s little study at Thornby, gazing out across the level lawn.
Outside, the typical old-fashioned English garden, bright in the June sunlight, was a wealth of flowers, while the old house itself was embowered in honeysuckle and roses. Beyond the tall box-hedge stood the ancient church-tower, square and covered with ivy, round which the rooks were lazily circling against the blue and cloudless sky. Through the open diamond-paned window came the fragrant perfume of the flowers, with a breath of that open English air that was to him refreshing after the dust and turmoil of the Eternal City.
“Getting tired of being a cosmopolitan—eh?” laughed the big, good-humoured man, turning to him. “I thought you would.”