"Do you know Dacre Wynne?" he asked, his voice betraying an emotion that
was almost fear.
'Toinette Brellier glanced at her uncle, hesitated, and then murmured:
"Yes--I--do. I didn't know you did, Nigel. He never spoke of you.
I--he--you see he wants me, too, Nigel, and I am almost afraid to tell
him--about us. But I--I have to see him. Shall I tell him?"
"Of course. Poor chap, I am sorry for him. Yes, I know him, 'Toinette.
But I cannot say we are friends. You see, I--Oh, well, it doesn't
matter."
But how much Dacre Wynne was to matter to him, and to 'Toinette, and to
the public, and to far away Scotland Yard, and to the man of mystery,
Hamilton Cleek, not they--nor any one else--could possibly tell.
They went into the long, cool drawing room together, and came upon Dacre
Wynne, clad in riding things, and looking, just as Nigel remembered he
always looked, very bronzed and big and handsome in a heavy way. His back
was toward them and his eyes were upon a photo of 'Toinette that stood on
a carved secretaire.
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