She looked at me in sharp, startled surprise. Her cheeks flushed slightly. Then, lowering her eyes, she turned her glance away, straight before her again, and in pretence that she had not understood my meaning, replied simply—
“If the heavy hand of disaster falls upon him, then I fear it must fall upon me also.”
How sweet she looked—how serious and pensive her beautiful countenance.
“I must act as your friend and use my best endeavours to ward it off,” I said.
“Did you not do so in Aix, Mr Kemball? We have to thank you for everything. They expected to learn a good deal through you, and while you engaged their attention we were enabled to make a hurried exit. It is, indeed, fortunate that I recognised Victor Tramu!”
“Then I suppose you have had previous narrow escapes?”
“One or two,” she replied, smiling. “But Dad is always so very wary. He is generally forewarned.”
“By whom?”
“By the man who watches him always—a man named Surridge, who never allows his identity to be known, but who acts as our watchdog, to give us warning of any unwelcome watcher.”
“But he failed at Aix.”