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Updated: June 24, 2025
Seymour Michael was no coward where hard words and no hard knocks were to be exchanged. His faith in his own keenness of intellect and unscrupulousness of tongue was unbounded. He smiled when he read Anna Agar's letter over a dainty breakfast at his club the next morning.
So far from feeling guilty at thus revealing all that he had promised to keep secret, he was now beginning to experience some pangs of conscience at the recollection of a concealment which, by a supreme effort, had been made to extend to four months. There was a sly gleam in Mrs. Agar's eyes.
Agar's face, the direction of her gaze; the very thought in her shallow mind. She knew that Mrs. Agar was sitting with her arms on the little davenport, gazing rapturously at the photograph of an insipid young man with a silk-faced smoking jacket; with clean linen, clean countenance, clean hands, immaculate hair, and a general air of being too weak to be mean.
Then who are you? Tell me who you are!" "Ah! That I cannot tell you." And Seymour Michael sat smiling quietly on Anna Agar's son. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Makes ill deeds done! He is a wise liar who makes use of the truth at times. Seymour Michael was clever enough to stay his fantastic tongue in his further explanation to Arthur Agar.
He knew quite well who I was, and he never told me." Thus was the first link of the chain riveted. Seymour Michael winced. He never raised his eyes. Mark Ruthine moved forward again. He did so with a singular rapidity, for he had seen murder flash from beneath Jem Agar's eyebrows. He was standing between them, his left hand gripping Jem's right arm with an undeniable strength.
There came a look into Agar's face which the little officer did not understand. We never do understand what we could not feel ourselves, and it is not a matter of wonder that the lesser intelligence should foil the greater in this instance. There was a depth in Jem Agar which was beyond the fathom of his keen-witted companion. "I am going home," continued General Michael, "almost at once.
I leave her to you." Without looking round he passed through the doorway and out into his own self-seeking life. But Anna Agar's revenge began from that moment. To a man of his nature, in whose veins ran the taint of a semi-superstitious Oriental blood, there was a nameless terror in the hatred of a human being, however helpless.
Agar's manner; she only knew that the mistress of Stagholme seemed to be afraid of looking at the burning papers. When all was consumed both women heaved a sigh of relief. "There," said Mrs. Agar, "I am glad we have been able to save poor Arthur that. These things are so very painful."
He was looking at his half-brother, with a glitter in his usually soft and peaceful eyes. "There are a good many things which he will have to explain." "Yes," answered Jem. "That is why we have brought him here." It fell to Arthur Agar's lot to forge the second link. "When," he asked Jem, "did he know that you had got back to safety and civilisation?" "Two months ago, by telegram."
Arthur Agar's only thought had been one of sudden horror. He had read the telegram over twice before going out to close his outer door. Then he came back and sat weakly down at the table where he had written more scented notes than noted themes, deliberately, womanlike, to cry. To his credit be it noted that he never thought of Stagholme, which was now his.
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