Wingrave turned away with a little gasp; a half-stifled exclamation
had crept out from between his teeth. His cheeks seemed paler than
ever, and his eyes unnaturally bright. Nevertheless, he was completely
master of himself. On the table was a large deed box of papers, which
Rocke had left for his inspection. From its recesses he drew out a
smaller box, unlocked it with a key from his chain, and emptied its
sole contents--a small packet of letters--upon the table. He counted
them one by one. They were all there--and on top a photograph. A
breath of half-forgotten perfume stole out into the room. He opened
one of the letters, and its few passionate words came back to his
memory, linked with a hundred other recollections, the desire of her
eyes, of her lips raised for his, the caressing touch of her fingers.
He found himself wondering, in an impersonal sort of way, that these
things should so little affect him. His blood ran no less coldly, nor
did his pulses beat the faster, for this backward glance into things
finished.
There was a knock at the door. He raised his head.
"Come in!"
A slim, fair young man obeyed the summons, and advanced into the
room. Wingrave eyed him with immovable face. Nevertheless, his manner
somehow suggested a displeased surprise.
"Sir Wingrave Seton, I believe?" the intruder said cheerfully.
"That is my name," Wingrave admitted; "but my orders below have
evidently been disobeyed.
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