“Why?”
“Because she is my enemy, my boy—and yours,” replied the old man, in a hard, strained voice.
“Why should she be? I don’t know the lady.”
“You said that you had some recollection of her in South America,” the old clergyman remarked.
“It isn’t the same woman.”
“Oh! How do you know?” asked his father, glancing at him quickly.
“Because I’ve seen the real Freda Crisp—the woman who you say is my enemy. I saw her to-night.”
“You’ve seen her! Where?” asked Mr Homfray eagerly.
“She is the woman I see in my bad dreams—those hazy recollections of the hours when I was drugged—handsome, dark-haired, middle-aged, and wears wonderful gowns.”
“Exactly! The description is quite correct, Roddy. But where did you see her to-night?”