Chapter Thirty.
In which Sybil Speaks.
Sybil saw me from the window as I walked up Neate Street at ten o’clock that morning. Then, letting myself in with the latchkey, I ascended the stairs, finding her as usual, fresh and dainty, although she was engaged in the prosaic operation of dusting the room.
“Why, Wilfrid!” she gasped, “what’s the matter? You’re not well, surely!” she cried in anxiety, coming forward towards me.
I threw my cap upon the couch, and halting upon the hearthrug, said in a low, serious voice,—
“Sybil, I think I may speak to you plainly, without preamble. I want to ask you a simple question. Who is Ralph Vickers?”
The light died out of her face in an instant. She went pale and her white lips trembled at mention of that name.
She was silent. She made no response. The blow that she had so long dreaded had fallen!