“Where have you been to-day?” I inquired, rather sharply, taking up a position on the hearthrug, with my back to the bright wood fire.
“This morning I went to Mr Praga’s studio in Hornton Street, and gave him a sitting. He is painting my portrait for the Academy, you know.”
“Yes,” I answered. “He told me so at the club the other day. Where else have you been?”
“Why are you so anxious to have a complete record of my doings?” she asked, pouting. “You seem absurdly suspicious.”
I smiled bitterly. Since her return she had exchanged her tailor-made gown for a handsome dinner-dress, and wore as her only ornament a string of pearls, my wedding gift. She stood gazing at me with her dark blue eyes wide-open, and brows arched in well-feigned reproach.
“You did not return to lunch,” I said quietly.
“No, I went to Pont Street,” she answered. “Mother was so fearfully upset.”
“Why?”
“Last night she detected Helmholtz in the act of opening a letter he had taken from the postman. It contained a cheque, and she was compelled to discharge him at a moment’s notice.”
“I understood he was quite a model servant,” I said, in genuine surprise at this latest development. To me it was astounding that a shrewd officer like Renouf should have thus allowed himself to be caught napping.