"But you shall!" I persisted. "Tell me—what do you know? Is Digby the real Sir Digby?"
"Of course he is!"
"And what are his exact relations with Phrida?"
"Ah!" she laughed. "You had better ask her yourself, Mr. Royle. She will, no doubt, tell you. Of course, she will—well, if you are to marry her. But there, I see that you are not quite responsible for your words this evening. It is, perhaps, natural in the circumstances; therefore I will forgive you."
"Natural!" I echoed. "I should think it is natural that I should resent such dastardly allegations when made against the woman I love."
"All I repeat is—go and ask her for yourself," was the woman's quiet response as she drew herself up, and pulled her fur more closely about her throat. "I really can't be seen here talking with you in that garb," she added.
"But you must tell me," I persisted.
"I can tell you no more than I have done. The girl you love will tell you everything, or—at least, if you have a grain of ingenuity, as you no doubt have—you will find out everything for yourself."
"Ah! but——"
"No, not another word, please, Mr. Royle—not to-night. If after making inquiry into the matter you care to come and see me when I am back in Park Mansions, I shall be very happy to receive you. By that time, however, I hope we shall have had news of poor Digby's whereabouts."