"He wanted a list of Lord Runton's house party. Can you guess
why?"
"Go on!"
"Mr. Fielding, of New York, left Havre on Saturday----"
"Stop!"
Her voice was a staccato note of agony. Between the fingers which were
pressed to her face he could see the slow, painful flushing of her
cheeks.
"Why did you come to tell me this?" she asked in a low tone.
"You know," he answered.
"Did you guess last night that we were impostors?" she asked.
"Certainly not," he answered. "Andrew was tortured with doubts about
you. He believed that you were Phyllis Poynton!"
"I am!" she whispered. "I was afraid of him all the evening. He must
have known."
It seemed to Duncombe that the rocks and gorse bushes were spinning
round and the ground was swaying under his feet. The wind, which had
kept them both half breathless, seemed full of mocking voices. She was
an impostor. These were her own words. She was in danger of detection,
perhaps of other things. At that very moment Spencer might have gained
an entrance into Runton Place. He felt uncertain of himself, and all the
time her eyes watched him jealously.
"Why did you come here?" she cried.
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