"The letters marked private I have
sent up to your room. By the bye, there was something I wanted to tell
you."
Wingrave closed the door.
"Well?" he said.
"I was up in the gallery of the Opera House last night," Aynesworth
said, "with a--person who saw you only once, soon after I first came
to you--before America. You were some distance away, and yet--my
friend recognized you."
Wingrave shrugged his shoulders.
"That, of course, is possible," he answered. "It really does not
matter so very much unless they knew me--as Wingrave Seton!"
"My friend," Aynesworth said, "recognized you as Sir Wingrave Seton."
Wingrave frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
"Who was it?" he asked.
"A most unlikely person," Aynesworth remarked smiling. "Do you
remember, when we went down to Tredowen just before we left for
America, a little, long-legged, black-frocked child, whom we met in
the gardens--the organist's daughter, you know?"
"What of her?" Wingrave asked.
"It was she who was with me," Aynesworth remarked. "It was she who saw
you in the box with the Marchioness of Westchester."
Aynesworth was puzzled by the intentness with which Wingrave was
regarding him. Impenetrable though the man was, Aynesworth, who had
not yet lost his early trick of studying him closely, knew that, for
some reason or other, his intelligence had proved disturbing.
"Have you then--kept up your acquaintance with this child?" he
demanded.
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