“Oh,” she said, with a touch of hesitation at first, “I didn’t mean—” She broke off, glanced at the clerk, who being a discreet young man was now in the background, and then with lowered voice confessed, “The fact is, Mr. Cromarty, I’m not really supposed to be here at all. That’s to say nobody knows I am.”
Mr. Cromarty looked infinitely relieved.
“And you don’t want anybody to know?” he said in his outspoken way. “Right you are. I can lie low and say nothing, or lie hard and say what you like; whichever you choose.”
“Lying low will do,” she smiled. “But please don’t think I’m doing anything very wrong.”
“I’ll think what you tell me,” he said gallantly. “I was thinking Silent Simon was in luck’s way—but perhaps you’re going to wig him?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Can you imagine me daring to wig Mr. Simon Rattar?”
“I guess he needs waking up now and then like other people. He’s been slacking over my business. In fact, I can’t quite make him out this morning. He’s not quite his usual self for some reason. Don’t be afraid to wig him if he needs it!”
The clerk in the background coughed and Miss Cicely Farmond moved towards the door of the lawyer’s room, but Ned Cromarty seemed reluctant to end the meeting so quickly.
“How did you come?” he asked.
“Walked,” she smiled.
“Walked! And how are you going back?”
“Walk again.”
“I say,” he suggested eagerly, “I’ve got my trap in. Let me drive you!”
She hesitated a moment.
“It’s awfully good of you to think of it—”
“That’s settled then. I’ll be on the look out when you leave old Simon’s den.”
He raised his cap and went downstairs this time without any hesitation. He had forgotten to light his cigar, and it was probably as a substitute for smoking that he found himself whistling.
V
The Third Visitor
Miss Cicely Farmond’s air as she entered Simon Rattar’s room seemed compounded of a little shyness, considerable trepidation, and yet more determination. In her low voice and with a fleeting smile she wished him good morning, like an acquaintance with whom she was quite familiar, and then with a serious little frown, and fixing her engaging eyes very straight upon him, she made the surprising demand:
“Mr. Rattar, I want you to tell me honestly who I am.”
For an instant Simon’s cold eyes opened very wide, and then he was gazing at her after his usual silent and steadfast manner.
“Who you are?” he repeated after a few seconds’ pause.
“Yes. Indeed, Mr. Rattar, I insist on knowing!”
Simon smiled slightly.
“And what makes you think I can assist you to—er—recover your identity, Miss Farmond?”
“To discover it, not recover it,” she corrected.
“Don’t you really know that I am honestly quite ignorant?”
Mr. Rattar shook his head cautiously.
“It is not for me to hazard an opinion,” he answered.
“Oh please, Mr. Rattar,” she exclaimed, “don’t be so dreadfully cautious! Surely you can’t have thought that I knew all the time!”
Again he was silent for a moment, and then enquired:
“Why do you come to me now?”
“Because I must know! Because—well, because it is so unsatisfactory not knowing—for various reasons.”
“And why are you so positive that I can tell you?”
“Because all my affairs and arrangements went through your hands, and of course you know!”
Again he seemed to reflect for a moment.
“May I ask, Miss Farmond,” he enquired, “why, in that case, you think I shouldn’t have told you before, and why—also in that case—I should tell you now?”
This enquiry seemed to disconcert Miss Farmond a little.
“Oh, of course I presume Sir Reginald and you had some reasons,” she admitted.
“And don’t you think then we have them still?”
“I can’t honestly see why you should make such a mystery of it—especially as I can guess the truth perfectly easily!”
“If you can guess it—” he began.
“Oh please don’t answer me like that! Why won’t you tell me?”
He seemed to consider the point for a moment, and then he said:
“I am not at all sure that I am at liberty to tell you, Miss Farmond, without further consultation.”
“Has Sir Reginald really any good reasons for not telling me?”
“Have you asked him that question?”
“No,” she confessed. “He and Lady Cromarty have been so frightfully kind, and yet so—so reserved on that subject, that I have never liked to ask them direct. But they know that I have guessed, and they haven’t done anything to prevent me finding out more for myself, which means that they really are quite willing to let me find out if I can.”
He shook his head.
“I am afraid I shall require more authority than that.”
She pursed her lips and looked at the floor in silence, and then she rose.
“Well, if you absolutely refuse to tell me anything, Mr. Rattar, I suppose—”
A dejected little shrug completed her sentence, and as she turned towards the door her eloquent eyes looked at him for a moment beneath their long lashes with an expression in them that might have moved a statue. Although Simon Rattar had the reputation of being impervious to woman’s wiles, he may have been moved by this unspoken appeal. He certainly seemed struck by something, for even as her back was turning towards him, he said suddenly, and in a distinctly different voice:
“You say you can guess yourself?”
She nodded, and added with a pathetic coaxing note in her low voice:
“But I want to know!”
“Supposing,” he suggested, “you were to tell me precisely how much you do know already, and then I could judge whether the rest might or might not be divulged.”
Her face brightened and she returned to her chair with a promptitude that suggested she was not unaccustomed to win
