“You!” she gasped, starting back. “I—I didn’t know you were here!” she stammered in confusion.
She was evidently a guest there, and was about to pass through the study into the garden. Charming in a soft white ninon gown and a big white hat, she held a tennis-racket in her hand, presenting a pretty picture framed by the dark doorway.
“Sylvia!” I cried, springing forward to her in joy, and catching her small white trembling hand in mine. “Fancy you—here!”
She held her breath, suffering me to lead her into the room and to close the door.
“I had no idea you were here,” I said. “I—lost you the other day in Regent Street—I——”
She made a quick gesture, as though she desired me to refrain from referring to that incident. I saw that her cheeks were deadly pale, and that in her face was an expression of utter confusion.
“This meeting,” she said slowly in a low voice, “is certainly an unexpected one. Mr. Shuttleworth doesn’t know you are here, does he?”
“No,” I replied. “He’s down in the paddock, I believe.”
“He has been called out suddenly,” she said. “He’s driven over to Clatford with Mrs. Shuttleworth.”
“And you are here alone?” I exclaimed quickly.