His grave-faced, unwelcome visitor, well-satisfied by this admission, next drew a mounted cabinet photograph from his pocket, and, holding it out before his eyes, asked, in a low, distinct voice whether he knew the original.
Chisholm’s countenance turned ashen grey the instant his haggard eyes fell upon the pictured face.
“God!” he cried, wildly starting up, “my God! Cator, spare me that! Hide it from my sight! hide it! I cannot bear it! It’s his portrait—his!”
The clock of St. Anne’s, in Wilton Place, had just chimed eleven, and the yellow sun had now succeeded in struggling through the wintry mist.
Claudia’s carriage with its handsome pair of bays and her powdered footman, with the bearskin rug over his arm, stood awaiting her beneath the dark portico.
As, warmly wrapped in her sables, she descended the wide marble staircase slowly, buttoning her glove, Jackson met her.
“Mr Chisholm has just called, m’lady. He has been shown into the morning-room.”
Her heart gave a quick bound. She dismissed the servant with a nod and walked to the apartment indicated.
Dudley turned quickly from the window as she entered, and greeted her, raising her ungloved hand to his lips with infinite courtliness. In an instant, however, she detected the change in him, for his face was blanched to the lips, his voice hoarse and tremulous.