But there was nothing masculine about Lady Judith Gordon, only sweetness and a charming simplicity.
“I really have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir,” she answered in a musical voice, but with a natural chilly hauteur. “I am not in the habit of accepting self-introductions from strangers,” she added.
Her reply, if a trifle superior in tone, was nevertheless the only one that could be expected of a modest, high-minded woman.
“I have the honour of knowing you only by sight, I admit,” I went on quickly, eager to remove her false impression, my hat still in my hand. “My name is Allan Kennedy, by profession a novelist—”
“You!” she gasped, interrupting me. “You are Mr Kennedy?” And her face blanched in an instant.
“That is my name,” I answered, much surprised at its effect upon her. But taking up the cue quickly, I said, “Perhaps I need say nothing further, save that your interests and my own are identical.”
She looked puzzled, and declared that she did not understand.
“Then forgive me if I mention a matter that must be distasteful to you, for I only do so in order to show how desirous I am of becoming your friend, if, after inquiries about me, you will allow me.”
I said. “Do you recollect the other night dressing in clothes that were not your own, and, accompanied by your father the Earl, paying a secret visit to a certain street in Bloomsbury?”
Her face fell. She held her breath, wondering how much I knew.