"If only Spencer would send for me to go back to Paris," he said with a
sigh.
Andrew turned his head.
"You can imagine now," he said, "what I have been suffering. The desire
for action sometimes is almost maddening. I think that the man who sits
and waits has the hardest task."
They were silent for some time, smoking steadily. Then Duncombe reverted
once more to his wanderings.
"You remember the story they told me at the Cafe, Andrew," he said. "It
was a lie, of course, but was Miss Poynton anything of an artist?"
"To the best of my belief," Andrew answered, "she has never touched a
brush or a pencil since she left school."
Duncombe looked out into the gathering twilight.
"It is a devil's riddle, this!" he said slowly. "Why did she go to that
place at all?"
"God only knows!" Andrew murmured.
Duncombe's teeth were hard set. A paper-knife, which he had caught up
from the table, snapped in his fingers. There was something in his
throat which nearly choked him.
"Phyllis Poynton," Andrew continued, "was as sweet and pure a woman as
ever breathed. She must have loathed that place. She could only have
gone there to seek for her brother, or----"
"Or for whom?"
"For those who knew where he was.
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