“Her ladyship has only just got up from luncheon, sir, and she is not receiving this afternoon,” he announced.
Aynesworth took back his card, and scribbled upon it the name of the newspaper for which he still occasionally worked.
“Her ladyship will perhaps see me,” he said, handing the card back to the man. “It is a matter of business. I will not detain her for more than a few minutes.”
The man returned presently, and ushered him into a small sitting room.
“Her ladyship will be quite half an hour before she can see you, sir,” he said.
“I will wait,” Aynesworth answered, taking up a paper.
The time passed slowly. At last, the door was opened. A woman, in a plain but exquisitely fitting black gown, entered. From Lovell’s description, Aynesworth recognized her at once, and yet, for a moment, he hesitated to believe that this was the woman whom he had come to see. The years had indeed left her untouched. Her figure was slight, almost girlish; her complexion as smooth, and her coloring, faint though it was, as delicate and natural as a child’s. Her eyes were unusually large, and the lashes which shielded them heavy. It was when she looked at him that Aynesworth began to understand.
She carried his card in her hand, and glanced at it as he bowed.
“You are the Daily Scribbler,” she said. “You want me to tell you about my bazaar, I suppose.”
“I am attached to the Daily Scribbler, Lady Ruth Barrington,” Aynesworth answered; “but my business this afternoon has nothing to do with the paper. I have called with a message from—an old friend of yours.”
She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. The graciousness of her manner was perceptibly abated.
“Indeed! I scarcely understand you, Mr.—Aynesworth.”
“My message,” Aynesworth said, “is from Sir Wingrave Seton.”
The look of enquiry, half impatient, half interrogative, faded slowly from her face. She stood quite still; her impassive features seemed like a plaster cast, from which all life and feeling were drawn out. Her eyes began slowly to dilate, and she shivered as though with cold. Then the man who was watching her and wondering, knew that this was fear—fear undiluted and naked.
He stepped forward, and placed a chair for her. She felt for the back of it with trembling fingers and sat down.
“Is—Sir Wingrave Seton—out of prison?” she asked in a strange, dry tone. One would have thought that she had been choking.
“Since yesterday,” Aynesworth answered.
“But his time—is not up yet?”
“There is always a reduction,” Aynesworth reminded her, “for what is called good conduct.”
She was silent for several moments. Then she raised her head. She was a brave woman, and she was rapidly recovering her self-possession.
“Well,” she asked, “what does he want?”
“To see you,” Aynesworth answered, “tomorrow afternoon, either here or at his apartments in the Clarence Hotel. He would prefer not to come here!”
“Are you his friend?” she asked.
“I am his secretary,” Aynesworth answered.
“You are in his confidence?”
“I only entered his service this morning,” he said.
“How much do you know,” she persisted, “of the unfortunate affair which led—to his imprisonment?”
“I have been told the whole story,” Aynesworth answered.
Her eyes rested thoughtfully upon his. It seemed as though she were trying to read in his face exactly what he meant by “the whole story.”
“Then,” she said, “do you think that anything but pain and unpleasantness can come of a meeting between us?”
“Lady Ruth,” Aynesworth answered, “it is not for me to form an opinion. I am Sir Wingrave Seton’s secretary.”
“What is he going to do?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” he answered.
“Is he going abroad?”
“I know nothing of his plans,” Aynesworth declared. “What answer shall I take back to him?”
She looked at him earnestly. Gradually her face was softening. The frozen look was passing away. The expression was coming back to her eyes. She leaned a little towards him. Her voice, although it was raised above a whisper, was full of feeling.
“Mr. Aynesworth,” she murmured, “I am afraid of Sir Wingrave Seton!”
Aynesworth said nothing.
“I was always a little afraid of him,” she continued, “even in the days when we were friendly. He was so hard and unforgiving. I know he thinks that he has a grievance against me. He will have been brooding about it all these years. I dare not see him! I—I am terrified!”
“If that is your answer,” Aynesworth said, “I will convey it to him!”
Her beautiful eyes were full of reproach.
“Mr. Aynesworth,” she said, in a low tone, “for a young man you are very unsympathetic.”
“My position,” Aynesworth answered, “does not allow me the luxury of considering my personal feelings.”
She looked hurt.
“I forgot,” she said, looking for a moment upon the floor; “you have probably been prejudiced against me. You have heard only one story. Listen”—she raised her eyes suddenly, and leaned a little forward in her chair—“some day, if you will come and see me when I am alone and we have time to spare, I will tell you the whole truth. I will tell you exactly what happened! You shall judge for yourself!”
Aynesworth bowed.
“In the meantime?”
Her eyes filled slowly with tears. Aynesworth looked away. He was miserably uncomfortable.
“You cannot be quite so hard-hearted as you try to seem, Mr. Aynesworth,” she said quietly. “I want to ask you a question. You must answer it? You don’t know how much it means to me. You are Sir Wingrave Seton’s secretary; you have access to all his papers. Have you seen any letters of mine? Do you know if he still has any in his possession?”
“My answer to both questions is ‘No!’ ” Aynesworth said a little stiffly. “I only entered the service of Sir Wingrave Seton this morning, and I know nothing at all, as yet, of his private affairs. And, Lady Ruth, you must forgive my reminding you that, in any case, I could not discuss such matters with you,”
