Lucille sat quite still, looking into the
fire.
"If only," she murmured, "if only this were the end."
CHAPTER XIV
Duson entered the sitting-room, noiseless as ever, with pale,
passionless face, the absolute prototype of the perfect French
servant, to whom any expression of vigorous life seems to savour
of presumption. He carried a small silver salver, on which
reposed a card.
"The gentleman is in the ante-room, sir," he announced.
Mr. Sabin took up the card and studied it.
"Lord Robert Foulkes."
"Do I know this gentleman, Duson?" Mr. Sabin asked.
"Not to my knowledge, sir," the man answered.
"You must show him in," Mr. Sabin said, with a sigh. "In this
country one must never be rude to a lord."
Duson obeyed. Lord Robert Foulkes was a small young man, very
carefully groomed, nondescript in appearance. He smiled
pleasantly at Mr. Sabin and drew off his gloves.
"How do you do, Mr. Sabin?" he said. "Don't remember me, I daresay.
Met you once or twice last time you were in London. I wish I could
say that I was glad to see you here again."
Mr. Sabin's forehead lost its wrinkle. He knew where he was now.
"Sit down, Lord Robert," he begged. "I do not remember you, it is
true, but I am getting an old man. My memory sometimes plays me
strange tricks."
The young man looked at Mr.
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