In which Marion is Indiscreet.
On entering, old Statham switched on the electric light quietly, the soft glow revealing the pale countenance of his guest.
The blanched face, with its apprehensive, half-frightened expression, was that of Marion Rolfe.
“Well,” he said in his thin, rather squeaky voice, after he had closed the door behind her and drawn forward a chair, “you have at last summoned courage to come—eh?” He smiled at her triumphantly. “Why have you refused my invitation so many times? My house, I know, bears a reputation for mystery, but I am no ogre, I assure you, Miss Rolfe.”
“Whispers have come back to me that I am believed by some to be a modern Blue Beard, or by others a kind of seducer; but I trust you will disbelieve the wild rumours put out by my enemies, and regard me as your friend.”
She had sunk into the soft depths of the green silk upholstered chair, and, with her motor-veil thrown back, was gazing at the old man, half in fear, half in wonder. To his words she made no response.
“I hope the car I sent came for you as arranged?” he said, at once changing the subject.
“Yes. The man arrived punctually,” she answered at last. “But—”
“But what?”
“I ought never to have come here,” she declared uneasily. “I will have to go before Mr Cunnington to-morrow for being absent all night, and shall certainly be discharged. He will never hear excuse in any case. Instant dismissal is the hard and fast rule.”