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Suddenly the silence was broken. Dr. Van Anden bent low over the sleeper, and spoke in a gentle, anxious tone: "Florence." But she neither stirred nor heeded. He spoke again: "Florence;" and the blue eyes unclosed slowly and wearily. The doctor drew back quickly, and motioned her father forward. "Speak to her, Mr. Vane."
Somehow, I felt sorry for her. She had remarkably fine eyes." "Sea-blue," suggested his companion. "I don't grasp the connection between the last two remarks." "Neither do I," admitted Vane. "I suppose there isn't one. But they weren't sea-blue; unless you mean the depth of indigo when you are out of soundings. They're Irish eyes." "You're not Irish.
We'll leave George to manage that, as he knows how to get round her; only do the thing well when you are about it; that's all I have to say! We shall bring rattling big appetites, shan't we, Miss Vane?" This was her own doing; a direct consequence of her appeal of the day before!
He extracted one in Nancy Smallwood's sprawling handwriting, and glanced through it again to make sure. "Dine 8 o'clock and go on to Mainwarings' dance afterwards. . . . Do come, if you can. . . ." Vane, placing it on the table in front of him, bowed to it profoundly. "We might," he remarked to Binks, "almost have it framed."
It was then he realised that the voice was his own. . . . Vane closed his eyes, and tried to think. Presumably the wireless messenger had sent out an S.O.S.; presumably, in time, someone would arrive on the scene. Until that happened he must concentrate on saving himself.
He had gone out a long way, a very long way, from the simple ordinary emotions which come upon, or beset, normal men living normal lives. "Did you?" he asked. "Why?" "I thought I could do something for you. I began last night." "What?" "Doing something for you. I told an acquaintance of mine called Vane, who is attached to the British Embassy, that you were here."
It was easy to understand that a small share in a prosperous enterprise would have made things easier for them. "I'm going to make another attempt. I expect some of our difficulties will vanish after I've had a talk with Hartley." "That's impossible," Kitty explained softly. "Hartley died a week ago." Vane started.
McKittrick would like part of it to be Vane after the doctor. Mr. McKittrick works in the Silver Legion Mines, so I suppose he wouldn't mind if part of the name was Mr. Carson's. I don't like Frederick very well, so it would have to be Carson. Well, Rosslyn Brooks Carson Vane sounds quite pretty very pretty I like it ever so much. I wonder what Mrs. McKittrick will think of it."
Their general appearance was not prepossessing, and Vane having paused in the doorway, and stared them both in turn out of countenance, had been amply rewarded by hearing himself described as an impertinent young puppy. He felt in his blackest and most pugilistic mood that morning.
For the moment she was not thinking of Hubert, however, but of another man whom she had loved, and whom she had seen condemned to death for the murder of Sydney Vane. Hubert put out his left hand and drew her close to him.
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