We sat down together chatting merrily. The baronet’s wife was in black lace, her white throat and arms gleaming through the transparency, while her corsage was relieved by crimson carnations. Around the table, too, were several other striking dresses, for the majority of the guests were young, and the house-party was a decidedly smart one. The meal, too, was served with a stateliness which characterised everything in the household of the Pierrepoint-Lanes.
I watched my love carefully, and saw, by her slightly flushed cheeks, that my arrival gave her the utmost satisfaction.
It was in the drawing-room afterwards, when we were sitting together, that I inquired if she had entirely recovered.
“Oh, entirely,” she replied. “It was extraordinary, was it not? Do you know whether Doctor Hoefer has visited the house again?”
“I don’t know,” I responded. “He’s so very secret in all his doings. He will tell me nothing—save one thing.”
“One thing—what is that?”
“He has discovered the identity of your visitor in black.”
“He has?” she cried quickly. “Who was she?”
“A woman whom he called by a curious foreign name,” I said, watching Beryl’s face the while. “I think he said she was known amongst her intimates as La Gioia.”
The light died in an instant from her face.