His keen eyes glanced at me quickly, and, as though in that moment he gauged exactly my strength of character, he expressed his pleasure at our meeting, and hoped that we should all spend as pleasant a time as he had done last year.
“Here one has not an hour for leisure,” he laughed. “Sir Henry and his wife are really a wonderful pair as host and hostess. You’ve already found them so, I’ve no doubt.”
“Yes,” I responded mechanically, his marvellous self-control staggering me. “The house-party is a very jolly one.”
“I’ve been abroad,” he went on. “But I’m pleased to be at home again. There’s nothing like an English country house in summer. It is an ideal existence.”
“How long have you been away?” I inquired, anxious to ascertain his tactics.
“Nearly a year. After leaving here last summer, I spent a week in London and then left for Vienna. Afterwards I went south, spending greater part of the winter in Cairo, thence to Bombay, and returned for the late spring in Florence, and afterwards wandered about France, until three days ago I found myself again back in England.”
“And you did not return once during the whole year?” I asked, with affected carelessness.
His small eyes darted quickly to mine, as though in suspicion.
“No,” he responded promptly. “It is almost a year to-day since I was in England.”
Then, noticing Barton waiting with the trap, he ordered him to take the luggage to the house, while all three of us walked up the drive together.