“By Jove!” said Sylvester sententiously, “it’s worse than I thought.  People really ought to be warned.  I suppose it’s that girl he was talking about at the studio the other day; and he tried to shift her on to Lightmark.  What a hypocrite the man must be!”

He was not, however, for long called upon to maintain, in the interests of society, his position of espionage; for Rainham, warned of the lapse of time by the clock which adorns the Park lodge, presently became aware that, if he was to fulfil his intention of calling on Mrs. Sylvester, he had no time to spare; and when he rose from his seat Charles Sylvester thought it advisable to resume the walk which his zeal had induced him to interrupt.

CHAPTER X

After all, he need not have hurried.  Mrs. Sylvester was out, he was told by the butler, who proceeded to suggest, with the freedom of an old friend, that he should make his way upstairs and find Miss Eve.

“Yes, I think I will, Phelps,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “if she is disengaged.”

“Miss Eve is in the music-room playing, I think, sir.  Will you go up?”

They found the room empty, however, though an open violin-case on the table and a music-stand, on which leaflets of Schubert fluttered fitfully in the light breeze that entered through the open window, testified to its recent occupation.

While the butler left Rainham, with apologies, to make further search, the latter stood, hat in hand, making a survey of the little wainscoted room, which he remembered as the schoolroom.  Indeed, though the name, in deference doubtless to Eve’s mature age, had been altered, it still retained much of its former aspect.  From the little feminine trifles lying about, scraps of unfinished crewel-work and embroidery, and the fresh flowers in the vases, he gathered that it was still an apartment which Eve frequented.  He recognised her cage of love-birds hanging in the window; the cottage piano with its frontal of faded silk, on which he could remember her first painful struggles with Czerny and scales; the pictures on the walls, many of them coloured reproductions from the Christmas numbers of the illustrated papers; the ink-stained tablecloth on the round table in the centre.  He examined the photographs on the mantelpiece with a smile—­Charles in his wig and gown, and Mrs. Sylvester with her pretty, faded face, gazed at each other, with a curious likeness in their disparity, from a double frame in the centre; the spectacled profile of the eminently respectable woman who had superintended Miss Eve’s studies held another place of honour; and, opposite, Rainham recognised a faded photograph of himself, taken six years before in Rome.  He turned from these to the bookshelves, which seemed to be filled with relegations from the rest of the house—­children’s story-books in tarnished bright covers and dilapidated school-books.  He took down one of these latter and examined it absently, with a half-sigh.  He had it still in his hand when the young girl fluttered in, looking very cool and fresh in her plain, white dress with a broad sash of apple-green ribbon.