Life may easily
become a more complicated affair for that child with the Tredowen
estates hanging round her neck. And anyhow, I disappoint my next of
kin."
Morrison, smooth-footed and silent, appeared upon the lawn. He
addressed Wingrave.
"A lady has arrived in a cab from Truro, sir," he announced. "She
wishes to see you as soon as convenient."
A sudden light flashed across Wingrave's face, dying out again almost
immediately.
"Who is she, Morrison?" he asked.
The man glanced at Mr. Pengarth.
"She did not give her name, sir."
Mr. Pengarth and Wingrave both rose. The former at once made his
adieux and took a short cut to the stables. Wingrave, who leaned
heavily upon his stick, clutched Morrison by the arm.
"Who is it, Morrison?" he demanded.
"It is Lady Ruth Barrington, sir," the man answered.
"Alone?"
"Quite alone, sir."
FOR PITY'S SAKE
The library at Tredowen was a room of irregular shape, full of angles
and recesses lined with bookcases. It was in one of these, standing
motionless before a small marble statue of some forgotten Greek poet,
that Wingrave found his visitor. She wore a plain serge traveling
dress, and the pallor of her face, from which she had just lifted a
voluminous veil, matched almost in color the gleaming white marble
upon which she was gazing. But when she saw Wingrave, leaning upon his
stick, and regarding her with stern surprise, strange lights seemed to
flash in her eyes.
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