Part 12 (1/2)
Still he retains his composure, not guessing at the truth.
”I have never presumed Miss Wardour, therefore can not have flattered myself. I _may_ have offended by coming one moment too late with this packet. Miss Wardour is accustomed to unqualified obedience. If I fail in that it is not from lack of inclination, but--because I am just learning submission.” He uttered the last words in a lower, softer tone, and fell back as he uttered them, laying his hand upon his hat.
Anger, self-shame, and a strange thrilling emotion, she could not, or would not recognize or define, urged her out of herself, beyond herself, and beyond the bounds of propriety or courtesy. Sweeping toward him with one swift movement, she extended one hand with downward turned palm, in a quick, meaning gesture, and said,
”Doctor Heath, I have lost Sybil Lamotte's letter.”
”Lost it! How?”
”That I should be glad to know; since I showed it to you last night and replaced it in my pocket, I have not seen it, and, Doctor Heath, as I do not wish without your knowledge, to be in possession of any secret of yours, I may as well tell you now that I overheard your warning to the detective last night.”
”My warning!” he repeated, parrot-like.
”Your reminder that you must be to him, _Doctor Heath from nowhere_!”
Doctor Heath from nowhere, gazed at her for a moment as if petrified, his mind seeming reluctant or unable to grasp at once her full meaning; then he came close to her, straight and tall, and paler than her own pale robe; the blood of all the Howards flas.h.i.+ng from his eye, and speaking in his bearing. Thus, for a moment, they faced each other, pale, pa.s.sionate, mute; then a voice, soft and suave, broke the spell.
”I trust you will pardon me.”
They turned swiftly, neither had faced the door; both had been too preoccupied to observe or hear. How long he had been a listener he alone could tell; but there stood Mr. Jerry Belknap, private detective, one hand resting on the handle of the closed door, the other holding an open note book.
Doctor Heath vouchsafed him one dark glance, then bending above the uplifted hand of Constance Wardour, he looked straight down into her eyes, and said in a low, tense voice,
”Miss Wardour, your words have been not an accusation, but an insult; as such, I can only accept them--in silence; good morning.”
Then he turned, waved the private detective haughtily from before the door, and strode out, his heels ringing firm upon the hall marble as he went.
”I fear I intruded,” said Mr. Belknap, innocently. ”I have just finished making some notes in the library, and am ready to proceed to the upper floor.”
”Breakfast.” It was Nelly who appeared with this announcement, which was welcome, at least to Mr. Belknap, and pale, silent, subdued, Constance motioned him to precede her to the dining room.
”I'm sure to be in a situation,” mused the girl with a rueful grimace.
”If it's only a _tete-a-tete_ breakfast with a detective.”
CHAPTER VIII.
ONE DETECTIVE TOO MANY.
”Aunt Honor,” said Miss Wardour, sweeping unceremoniously into her aunt's dressing room, ”you really must come to my relief.”
Mrs. Aliston seated in a big dressing chair, with a tempting breakfast tray drawn close beside her, looked up serene and comfortable, and said, after setting down her porcelain chocolate cup with great care.
”Yes!” with the rising inflection.
”I'm exhausted, bothered, bored,” continued the young lady, flinging herself down upon the nearest ottoman. ”I wish my old diamonds had never had an existence. I wish Grandmama Wardour had had better sense.”
”Have a cup of chocolate,” suggested Mrs. Aliston.