A PAINFUL ENCOUNTER

More work.  A week of it, ceaseless and unremitting.  The police seemed to have abandoned their watch over my cottage, and I heard a whisper that a statement by the Duke had at any rate partially cleared me from suspicion.  Ray had declined to leave England.  I knew quite well that it was on my account.  He, with the others, was now in London.

Then came my own summons thither.  I was told to report myself immediately on arrival at Rowchester House, and to my surprise was informed by the servant who answered my inquiries that a room was reserved for me there.  I had no sooner reached it than Lady Angela’s own maid arrived with a message.  Her ladyship would be glad if I could spare her a few moments in the drawing-room as soon as possible.

Lady Angela was standing upon the hearthrug.  I stepped a little way across the threshold and stopped short.  She held out her hand to me with a quiet laugh.

“Have you forgotten me?” she asked, “or am I so alarming?”

I set my teeth and moved towards her.

“You took my breath away,” I said, with an ease which I was very far from feeling.  “Remember that I have come from Braster.”

I do not know what she wore.  Her gown seemed to me to be of some soft crepe or silk, and the colour of it was a smoky misty blue.  There were pearls around her neck, and her hair, arranged with exquisite simplicity, seemed to be drawn back from her face and arranged low down on the back of her neck.  She had still the fresh delightful colour which had been in her cheeks when she left Braster, and the smile with which she welcomed me was as delightful as ever.

“This is a charming arrangement,” she declared.  “You know that you are such an important person, and have to be watched so closely, that you are to stay here.  I went up myself with the housekeeper to see to your rooms.  I do hope that you will be comfortable.”

“Comfortable is not the word,” I answered.  “I have never been used to such luxury.”

She laughed.

“Dear me!” she said.  “I have so much to tell you, and the carriage is waiting already.  Thank goodness we dine alone to-morrow night.  But there is one thing which I must tell you at once.  Sir Michael Trogoldy is in town, you know.  He took me in to dinner at Amberley House last night, and we talked about you.”

“I had a letter from Sir Michael a few days ago,” I answered.  “He made a proposition to me—­and asked me to call and see him.”

Something in my voice, I suppose, betrayed my feelings.  She laid her hand upon my arm.

“Mr. Ducaine,” she said, “I do hope that you mean to be reasonable.  Sir Michael is a dear old man.”

“He is my mother’s brother,” I answered, “and he left me to starve.”

“He had not the least idea,” she declared, “that you were not reasonably well off.  He is most interested in hearing about you, and he was delighted to have you accept the allowance he offered you.  You will go and see him?”