“Yes, miss,” the man answered; and she entered the hall, and glanced around her while he closed the door.
At that moment Tristram’s voice, from one of the rooms beyond, cried—
“Show the lady in, Smayle.”
She followed the servant into the cosy sitting-room redolent of cigars. She was gazing round the apartment, noting how comfortable it was, when suddenly the door reopened and Tristram entered. He had evidently been dining out, or to a theatre, and had now discarded his dress-coat for an easy velvet lounge-jacket. When he had closed the door, he stood for a moment regarding her in silence.
“Well,” he said at length in Italian. “So you have come, eh?” His welcome was certainly the reverse of cordial.
“Yes,” she faltered; “I have come. How did you know I was in London?”
Certain furrows on Tristram’s brow revealed profound thought.
“A woman who is wanted by the police always has some difficulty in concealing her whereabouts,” he answered meaningly. His countenance was hard and vengeful; his features expressed so much disdain and cruelty at that moment that one would scarcely believe they could ever be susceptible of any gentle emotion.
“Why do you throw that in my face?” she asked angrily.
“My dear signorina,” he answered, crossing the room, “come here to this chair and sit down. I want to talk to you very seriously, if you’ll allow me.”