“Only because it has been imperative,” she declared, speaking mechanically, her face hard set and haggard.
“But is he a desirable acquaintance for a woman like yourself, whose every action is chronicled by Society gossips, and who is surrounded by jealous women who would ruin your reputation if only they had half a chance?”
“I do not seek him,” she answered. “He comes to me because my interests are his.”
“In what direction?”
“I cannot tell you. It is really unfair to ask. You are aware of my acquaintance with this man, and I merely tell you that it is absolutely compulsory.”
She was standing before me, with jewels upon her neck and arms flashing in the lamplight, one of the handsomest of women, yet upon her face was a wild and wearied expression such as I had never before seen. Assuredly some great and terrible secret lay hidden in her heart. “I heard you mention to your friend that Jack Bethune once knew a woman—a woman named Sybil. Who was she?” I asked at last.
“Sybil! Sybil!” she repeated, with a puzzled look, as if trying to recall the conversation. “Oh, yes! you mean Sybil Houston.”
“Who was she?”
“The daughter of a retired naval officer, I believe. I never met her, but I understood that she acted as Jack’s amanuensis. She was, however, engaged to some impossible person or other, whom she married.”
“Are you sure he knew no other woman named Sybil?” I asked eagerly.