He had not often been crossed in his life, and a flood of resentment surged up in a very perplexed mind.

“Thank you.  Yes—­I shall go home by San Francisco.”

The touch of haughtiness in his manner, the manner of one accustomed all his life to be a prominent and considered person in the world, did not disguise from Elizabeth the soreness underneath.  It was hard to hurt her old friend.  But she could only sit as though she felt nothing—­meant nothing—­of any importance.

And she achieved it to perfection.  Delaine, through all his tumult of feeling, was sharply conscious of her grace, her reticence, her soft dignity.  They were exactly what he coveted in a wife—­what he hoped he had captured in Elizabeth.  How was it they had been snatched from him?  He turned blindly on the obstacle that had risen in his path, and the secret he had not yet decided how to handle began to run away with him.

He bent forward, with a slightly heightened colour.

“Lady Merton—­we might not have another opportunity—­will you allow me a few frank words with you—­the privilege of an old friend?”

Elizabeth turned her face to him, and a pair of startled eyes that tried not to waver.

“Of course, Mr. Arthur,” she said smiling.  “Have I been doing anything dreadful?”

“May I ask what you personally know of this Mr. Anderson?”

He saw—­or thought he saw—­her brace herself under the sudden surprise of the name, and her momentary discomfiture pleased him.

“What I know of Mr. Anderson?” she repeated wondering.  “Why, no more than we all know.  What do you mean, Mr. Arthur?  Ah, yes, I remember, you first met him in Winnipeg; we made acquaintance with him the day before.”

“For the first time?  But you are now seeing a great deal of him.  Are you quite sure—­forgive me if I seem impertinent—­that he is—­quite the person to be admitted to your daily companionship?”

He spoke slowly and harshly.  The effort required before a naturally amiable and nervous man could bring himself to put such an uncomfortable question made it appear particularly offensive.

“Our daily companionship?” repeated Elizabeth in bewilderment.  “What can you mean, Mr. Arthur?  What is wrong with Mr. Anderson?  You saw that everybody at Winnipeg seemed to know him and respect him; people like the Chief Justice, and the Senator—­what was his name?—­and Monsieur Mariette.  I don’t understand why you ask me such a thing.  Why should we suppose there are any mysteries about Mr. Anderson?”

Unconsciously her slight figure had stiffened, her voice had changed.

Delaine felt an admonitory qualm.  He would have drawn back; but it was too late.  He went on doggedly—­

“Were not all these persons you named acquainted with Mr. Anderson in his public capacity?  His success in the strike of last year brought him a great notoriety.  But his private history—­his family and antecedents—­have you gathered anything at all about them?”