He felt the other's hot breath upon
his cheek. For a moment there stole through his numbed senses the fear
of more terrible things. And then the grip which held him relaxed.
Andrew stood away gasping. The crisis was over.
"You lied to me, George. Why?"
Duncombe did not answer. He could not. It was as though his body had
been emptied of all breath.
"You meant to keep the contents of that telegram a secret from me. Why?
Was I right after all? Read me that telegram, George. Read it me
truthfully."
"The telegram is from Spencer," Duncombe said. "He is coming here."
"Here? Is he giving up the search? Has he failed, then?"
"He does not say," Duncombe answered. "He says simply that he is coming
here. He has wired for a motor to meet him at Lynn. He may be here
to-night."
A discordant laugh broke from Pelham's lips.
"What about your Miss Fielding, now?" he exclaimed. "Why do you suppose
that he is leaving Paris, and coming here? I was right. I knew that I
was right."
Duncombe stood up. His expanse of shirt-front was crumpled and battered.
His white tie was hanging down in ribbons.
"Listen, Andrew!" he exclaimed.
Pages:
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163