For over an hour they sat together in the darkness engaged in a strange discussion, when at last they rose and together walked on, still deep in conversation. The Marquis had an appointment, and was about to take leave of her when, as they crossed the wide deserted space between the Admiralty and the Horse Guards, a man in a heavy fur-trimmed overcoat and felt hat, in hurrying past, gazed full into the faces of both. At that moment they were beneath one of the lamps flickering in the gusty wind, and he had full view of them.
Gemma’s eyes met his, and instantly the recognition was mutual.
It was the man who had attempted to take her life—Frank Tristram. He had evidently arrived from the Continent by the day express from Paris, left his despatches at the Foreign Office, and was walking to his chambers in St. James’s Street by the nearest way across the Park. He usually preferred to walk home in order to stretch his legs, cramped as they were by many tedious hours in railway carriages.
When he had passed he turned quickly as if to reassure himself, then, with some muttered words, he strode forward with his hands deep in his pockets and his head bent towards the cold boisterous wind.
“Did you notice that man who has just passed?” Gemma gasped, in a low voice betraying alarm.
“No; who was he?” asked the Marquis, turning back to glance at the retreating figure.
“A man you know; Tristram, the English Foreign Office messenger.”
“Tristram!” ejaculated Montelupo quickly. “He’s never recognised me?”
“I think so,” she replied. “He looked straight into your face.”
The Minister ejaculated a fierce Italian oath. “Then the fact that I’m in London will be at once made known,” he said.