His heart was thumping against his
ribs. Wingrave's voice sounded to him like a far-off thing.
"The handwriting upon that envelope which I have just restored to you,
Mr. Richardson, is well known to me," Wingrave continued, gazing
steadfastly at the young man whom he was addressing.
"The envelope! The handwriting!" Richardson faltered. "I--it was
from--"
An instant's pause. Wingrave raised his eyebrows.
"Ah!" he said. "We need not mention the lady's name. That she should
be a correspondent of yours, however, helps me to understand better
several matters which have somewhat puzzled me lately. No! Don't go,
my dear sir. We must really have this affair straightened out."
"What affair?" Richardson demanded, with a very weak attempt at
bluster. "I don't understand you--don't understand you at all."
Wingrave leaned a little forward in his chair. His eyebrows were drawn
close together; his gaze was entirely merciless.
"You are not well this morning," he remarked. "A little headache
perhaps! Won't you try one of these phenacetine lozenges--excellent
things for a headache, I believe? Warranted, in fact, to cure all
bodily ailments for ever! What! You don't like the look of them?"
The young man cowered back in his chair. He was gripping the sides
tightly with both hands, and the pallor of a ghastly fear had spread
over his face.
"I--don't know what you mean," he faltered. "I haven't a headache!"
Wingrave looked thoughtfully at the box between his fingers.
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