But Paul Harley was
scientifically remorseless. I could detect no pity in his
glance.
"I would give my life willingly to spare my husband the knowledge
of what has been," said Lady Ireton in a low, monotonous voice.
"Three times I sent my maid to Meyer to recover my bag, but he
demanded a price which even I could not pay. Now it is all
discovered, and Harry will know."
"That, I fear, is unavoidable, Lady Ireton," declared Harley.
"May I ask where Lord Ireton is at present?"
"He is in Africa after big game."
"H'm," said Harley, "in Africa, and after big game? I can offer
you one consolation, Lady Ireton. In his own interests Meyer
will stick to his first assertion that Mr. De Lana was dining
alone."
A strange, horribly pathetic look came into the woman's haunted
eyes.
"You--you--are not acting for------?" she began.
"I am acting for no one," replied Harley tersely. "Upon my
friend's discretion you may rely as upon my own."
"Then why should he ever know?" she whispered.
"Why, indeed," murmured Harley, "since he is in Africa?"
As we descended the stair to the hall my friend paused and
pointed to a life-sized oil painting by London's most fashionable
portrait painter. It was that of a man in the uniform of a
Guards officer, a dark man, slightly gray at the temples, his
face very tanned as if by exposure to the sun.
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