“It depends what you mean by ‘the’ Richard Ashton,” I answered. This young man attracted me; he had done so from the first.
“Do you happen to live in King Street, St. James’s?” he inquired abruptly.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then you’re the man I have for weeks past been wanting to meet. I believe you know Miss Thorold—Miss Vera Thorold.”
“I do.”
“She wants particularly to see you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she told me, or rather a friend of hers—to whom I am engaged to be married—did. They are together at the Alexandra Hotel, in Mentone. My friend is staying there with an aunt of mine.”
“Surely if Miss Thorold wished to meet me she could have written to me, or telegraphed,” I said rather frigidly.
“No. I think I ought to tell you that the man who introduced himself to you some minutes ago—the man Dago Paulton—has entire control over her—she goes in fear of him! She did not dare write to you, or even send you a wire. She knew that if she did he would find out. The lady to whom I am engaged told me this some days ago, and told me a great deal about you that had been told to her by Miss Thorold.”