The whole conception was delightful, and the girl’s laughing face was most perfect in its portraiture.
Of a sudden the door reopened, and he was met by a stout, rather wizened old gentleman with white bristly hair and closely cropped moustache, a man whose ruddy face showed good living, and who moved with the brisk alertness of a man twenty years his junior.
“Ah! here you are, Mr. Henfrey!” he exclaimed warmly, as he offered his visitor his hand. Upon the latter was a well-worn black glove—evidently to hide either some disease or deformity. “I was wondering if you received my letter safely?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh, glancing at the shrewd little man whose gloved right hand attracted him.
“Sit down,” the other said, as he closed the door. “I’m very anxious to have a little chat with you.”
Hugh took the arm-chair which Mr. Peters indicated. Somehow he viewed the man with suspicion. His eyes were small and piercing, and his face with its broad brow and narrow chin was almost triangular. He was a man of considerable personality, without a doubt. His voice was high pitched and rather petulant.
“Now,” he said. “I was surprised to learn that you had left your safe asylum in Kensington. Not only was I surprised—but I confess, I was alarmed.”
“I take it that I have to thank you for making those arrangements for my escape from Monte Carlo?” remarked Hugh, looking him straight in the face.
“No thanks are needed, my dear Mr. Henfrey,” replied the elder man. “So long as you are free, what matters? But I do not wish you to deliberately run risks which are so easily avoided. Why did you leave Abingdon Road?”
“I was advised to do so by a friend.”