“He threatened you, of course?” I said, leaning upon the grey old weather-worn sundial and looking at her as though I were waiting for her explanation.
“Threats?” she laughed. “Oh! yes. He was full of them. But you were quite right; my denial utterly upset all his bluster. He can’t make out my intentions, and therefore will hesitate to do me harm, for he doesn’t know the extent of my knowledge. Really, Mr Woodhouse, you very cleverly foresaw the whole affair. I admit that I was very hard pressed for a few moments. But now—” and she paused.
“And now?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve met him with his own weapons. He won’t dare to speak, because at heart he’s afraid of me.”
“Then you think he’ll leave very soon?”
“Ah! I don’t know. He’s playing a very clever game, as he always does. Think how he has come here as George’s friend, and at the same time as my bitterest enemy! His audacity is surely unequalled!”
“But is he really your enemy?” I queried, fixing her with my gaze. “Are you not his?”
She looked at me somewhat puzzled. I had put a meaning note into my voice, yet I did not intend that she should be aware that I knew the truth of her secret hatred of my love, or that I had ascertained that the name of the young man who had fallen the victim of an assassin’s hand was Hugh Wingfield.
“Perhaps I am his enemy,” she laughed lightly. “I have surely need to be.”
“Why?”