He saw her fingers clutch the sides of her
chair.
"From Lenox? And his name?"
"The Duke of Souspennier! He takes himself so seriously that he
even travels incognito. At the hotel he calls himself Mr. Sabin."
"Indeed!"
"I wondered whether you might not know him?"
"Yes, I know him."
"And in connection with this man," Brott continued, "I have
something in the nature of a confession to make. I forgot for
a moment your request. I even mentioned your name."
The pallor had spread to her cheeks, even to her lips. Yet her
eyes were soft and brilliant, so brilliant that they fascinated him.
"What did he say? What did he ask?"
"He asked for your address. Don't be afraid. I made some excuse.
I did not give it."
For the life of him he could not tell whether she was pleased or
disappointed. She had turned her shoulder to him. She was looking
steadily out of the window, and he could not see her face.
"Why are you curious about him?" she asked.
"I wish I knew. I think only because he came from Lenox."
She turned her face slowly round towards him. He was astonished to
see the dark rings under her eyes, the weariness of her smile.
"The Duke of Souspennier," she said slowly, "is an old and a dear
friend of mine. When you tell me that he is in London I am anxious
because there are many here who are not his friends--who have no
cause to love him.
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