"What other reason _can_ there be?" I asked.
He turned on me sharply. "I don't know. Do you?"
I ventured on a courteous remonstrance. "My dear sir! if you can't find
another reason, how can I? It must have been a sudden antipathy, as you
say. Such things do happen between strangers. I suppose I am right in
assuming that Mrs. Romayne and Mr. Winterfield are strangers?"
His eyes flashed with a sudden sinister brightness--the new idea had
caught light in his mind. "They _met_ as strangers," he said.
There he stopped again, and returned to the window. I felt that I might
lose the place I had gained in his confidence if I pressed the subject
any further. Besides, I had my reasons for saying a word about Penrose
next. As it happened, I had received a letter from him, relating to his
present employment, and sending kindest regards to his dear friend and
master in the postscript.
I gave the message. Romayne looked round, with an instant change in his
face. The mere sound of Penrose's name seemed to act as a relief to the
gloom and suspicion that had oppressed him the moment before.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305