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Updated: June 12, 2025
Should he tell all that he had hoped and thought and rethought respecting Jem Agar and Dora? Should he; should he not? And the loving little woman stood there almost daring to break the great silence herself; but not quite. Strong as was her mother's heart, the habit of submission was stronger.
It is stamped on my brain for ever, and with my eyes shut I can see every detail again even now. It had been arranged between Duquesnel and the official sent from the Court that Agar and I should go to the Tuileries to see the room where we were to play, in order to have it arranged according to the requirements of the piece.
Agar, but the young fellow was evidently his first care. While he was kneeling by the low chair examining Arthur's eyes and face, Mrs. Agar suddenly rose and crossed the room. "Is he dead?" she said abruptly. "Who?" inquired Mark Ruthine, without looking round. "Seymour Michael." "Yes." "Quite?" "Yes." "Then Arthur killed him?" "Yes."
Agar was like a child in many ways, more especially in her unbounded belief in her own cunning. She actually imagined herself to be a match for this man, who had been trained in the ways of duplicity all his life. She saw nothing of his mind, and fatuously ignored the fact that from the moment she had entered the room he had begun the interview with a mental hypothesis.
That night, while he was displaying his diamond studs in the stalls of Drury Lane Theatre, was born into the world long before his time a child, Arthur Agar, destined to walk the smoothest paths of life, literally in silk attire; for he grew up to love such things. But the ways of Nature are strange. She is very quiet; patient as death itself.
He rarely moved in any matters wherein the law could by hook or crook be introduced without consulting Mr. Rigg, whom he vaguely called his "man." And it was precisely this delay that Mrs. Agar disliked.
Most faces express weakness the faces that pass one in the streets. Some are the incarnation of meanness, some pleasanter types verge on sensuality. The face of the man who sat watching Agar expressed indomitable, invincible determination, and nothing else. It was the face of one who was ready to sacrifice any one, even himself, to a single all-pervading purpose.
Dora Glynde had always looked upon herself as a somewhat weak and easily led person; she was beginning to feel her own strength now and to rejoice in it. From the first she half-suspected a trap of some sort. Such a subterfuge was eminently characteristic of Mrs. Agar, and that lady's manner of welcoming her only increased the suspicion.
Stay out of the way for a year, and during that twelve months you will be able to do more than you could get done in twelve years when you were being watched by them." "I see," answered Agar quietly. "Not dead, but gone up country." "Precisely so; where they certainly will not be on the look-out for you." The bright black eyes were shining with suppressed excitement.
"I promise," replied Seymour Michael. Arthur gathered himself together for an effort. His distrust of this man was almost a panic. "Then tell me," he said. Michael leant back in his chair, fixing his pleasant eyes on Arthur's pale face. "The estate is not yours," he said. "Your step-brother, Jem Agar, is not dead." "Not dead!" repeated Arthur, without any joy in his voice. "Not dead!
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