Part 40 (1/2)
Lady Ireton, still staring straight before her at Harley, inclined her head in a.s.sent.
”I heard my father's voice,” she said hoa.r.s.ely.
”Quite so,” he continued. ”I am aware that Major Ragstaff is your father.” He turned to me: ”Do you recognize the touch of genius at last?” Then, again addressing Lady Ireton: ”You naturally suggested to your companion that he should look out of the window in order to learn what was taking place. The next thing you knew was that he had fallen into the street below?”
Lady Ireton shuddered and raised her hands to her face.
”It is retribution,” she whispered. ”I have brought this ruin upon myself. But he does not deserve------”
Her voice faded into silence, and:
”You refer to your husband, Lord Ireton?” said Harley.
Lady Ireton nodded, and again recovering power of speech:
”It was to have been our last meeting,” she said, looking up at Harley.
She shuddered, and her eyes blazed into sudden fierceness. Then, clenching her hands, she looked aside.
”Oh, G.o.d, the shame of this hour!” she whispered.
And I would have given much to have been spared the spectacle of this proud, erring woman's humiliation. 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 a.s.sertion 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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.
”Having had no occasion for disguise when the portrait was painted,”