At this moment, his face was clouded, and he drummed the arm of
his chair with nervous fingers. Then he shifted uneasily under my
gaze, which was, perhaps, more earnest than I realised.
"You said you had a message for me, sir," he reminded me.
"Yes," I said. "Have you ever been out this way before?"
"Yes, I have been out this way a number of times."
"You know this place, then?"
"I have heard it mentioned, but I have never been here before."
"Do you know whose place that is next door to us?"
"Yes," and his voice sank to a lower key. "It belongs to Worthington
Vaughan."
"And you know him?"
"At one time, I knew him quite well, sir," and his voice was still
lower.
"No doubt," I went on, more and more interested, "you also knew his
very fascinating daughter."
A wave of colour crimsoned his face.
"Why are you asking me these questions, Mr. Lester?" he demanded.
"Because," I said, "the message I have is from that young lady, and
is for a man named Frederic Swain."
He was on his feet, staring at me, and all the blood was gone from his
cheeks.
"A message!" he cried. "From her! From Marjorie! What is it, Mr.
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