What could be the truth? Why were her lips closed?—Ay, why indeed? I dreaded to think.
Chapter Eighteen.
In which the Mask is Raised.
Three days had passed.
Two curious things happened while we were sitting in the atrium of the Casino in Monte Carlo during the interval.
In the first place Paulton’s friend, Henderson, whom I had met only on that one occasion in the fumoir of the hotel, happened to saunter in. He looked hard at both of us, but either did not recognise us—a thing that I think hardly possible—or else deliberately cut us.
Later, I went over to the buffet with Faulkner, for the play was not interesting, and we had decided to leave. A dozen men stood there, talking, and suddenly I caught the word “D’Uzerche.”
They were talking of the fire three days previously. Anxious to hear all I could about Château d’Uzerche, I moved a little nearer.