“Personally, I don’t think you need have any uneasiness upon that score,” I said. “Miss Seymour is his sole companion—probably his confidante—for he has but few friends.”
“Exactly. But perhaps she knows just a little too much, eh?”
I had not looked at the matter in that light. My companion’s discovery was certainly one that must cause anybody to pause and think, but suspicion of Shaw’s hatred of Asta was, I felt, too absurd. But when a man is in love he is very prone to jump to hasty conclusions.
“Well,” I said, “now that you have been frank with me so far, and have taken me into your confidence, Nicholson, will you not tell me what you really do suspect?”
“You are Shaw’s friend. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken as I have,” he said.
“I am no more his friend than you are,” I replied, recollecting Arnold’s warning regarding the Hand—whatever that might be. “Have I not agreed with you that the circumstances are suspicious, and have I not promised to help you to watch? What actual conclusions have you formed?”
“H-s-s-h!” he said, and next moment I heard a light footstep behind me, and turning, found myself face to face again with Asta.
“They’re worrying Dad on the telephone from London,” she exclaimed, laughing merrily. “He gets so out of patience with it. But really it is awfully trying sometimes. They ring you up and then keep you half an hour waiting.”
“I know,” laughed Guy. “My own experience is exactly the same. Why, only the other day I wanted to ring you up, and it took nearly half an hour.”
As she stood there with the sunlight full upon her face she looked inexpressibly dainty and charming. Truly Guy Nicholson was a lucky man. They were not actually engaged, it seemed, for he had not yet asked Shaw for her hand. Probably Guy hesitated because of the dark suspicion which had entered his mind.