This House to Let

by William Le Queux

But in spite of the brave efforts of the two young women there was no exhilaration in the air, only a sort of well-defined depression, such as is felt in the atmosphere before the faint rumblings of a thunderstorm. Nobody really felt comfortable, not a single guest would feel anything but relief when the tedious evening drew to a close.

Guy Spencer was relieved, in a way, that his uncle had ostensibly buried the hatchet, but still he never felt happy in that uncle's house. The strong disapproval was there, if suppressed for the sake of politeness.

These little informal dinners, given at long intervals to impress upon him that he was still a recognised member of the family, bored him extremely. They were always strictly limited as to numbers, and the other guests were generally people of no importance, on the outer fringe of that society in which the Southleighs moved.

It was difficult to know what Stella was feeling, for she had such admirable self-control. But if she was a sensitive woman she must have been cut to the heart by the behaviour of her elderly relative. And her suffering must have been more poignant from the fact that this contemptuous behaviour must be apparent to every other member of the party.

While the two young women were chattering away, battling, as it were, against the general depression, Hugh Murchison was trying to collect his thoughts.

Strange that his recollections had harked back to that tragedy at Blankfield while Nina was speaking of the young Mrs. Spencer. And, if his memory and his eyesight were not playing him false, he was sitting opposite to the unhappy Pomfret's widow.

Six years make a considerable difference in the personal appearance of any man or woman, and they had made a difference in her. If he had met her in the street, he would not have known her. Perhaps he would not have known her to-night, but for that sudden accidental throwing back of the memory of old times. In other words, if his mind had not been accidentally diverted to Jack Pomfret, he would have failed to recognise the woman whom he once knew under the name of Norah Burton.

And yet could he be sure? Let him think a little. Six years ago Norah Burton looked twenty, and Davidson the detective assured him she was at least four years older than she looked—the appearance of youth, he had added, was one of her assets.

This young woman did not look a day older than twenty-six, and taking the computation of the years, she must be at least thirty. But if she were Norah Burton, and had retained that priceless asset of youth, she would still have that four years' advantage.

Then Norah Burton's hair was fair and wavy, Stella Spencer's was dark. Still it is easy for a woman to alter the colour or the appearance of her hair. If Stella Keane had arisen, like the phoenix, from Norah Burton, she would alter herself in every detail, so far as Nature permitted her.