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"Babs, darling, it is sweet of you to come. I've no party for you," said Lady Poynter, forgiving the girl's lateness and forgetting her own discomfiture. Barbara shook her head and looked round the room with eyes which had lost their momentary colour, as though the light behind them had been doused.
"I I did not know it was Poynter until he fell," urged Themar trembling. "Granberry and he are similar in build." "Who attempted to kill Miss Westfall?" blazed the Baron, shaking his valet into chattering subjection. "Excellency, I know not!" protested Themar swallowing painfully. "There was still another man he dashed ahead and stole the car."
So back and got Mr. Poynter to enter into, my book while I read from my last night's notes the letter, and that being done to writing it fair. At noon home to dinner, and then the boy and I to the office, and there he read while I writ it fair, which done I sent it to Sir W. Coventry to peruse and send to the fleete by the first opportunity; and so pretty betimes to bed.
'Then I was not cleared when you spoke to me at Hyde Park Gate? he returned, with a relieved air. 'So it did not matter my giving you the slip. You frightened me horribly, Miss Garston, I can tell you that. I saw those advertisements, too, to Jack Poynter, and I was very near leaving the country; but I am glad I held on, as Phil advised, drawing a long breath as he spoke.
Presently with an ominous glint of temper in his fine eyes, he noiselessly rearranged his tent, viciously donned the offending shirt, whistled for Nero and leaving the camp of his lady as unexpectedly as he had entered it, set out for Sherrill's. Even the most equable of tempers, it would seem, may now and then prove crotchety. And who may say? Mr. Poynter was a young man of infinite resource.
It was here that the Preraphaelites made history: Madox Brown, Burne-Jones, Ruskin, William Morris and the MacDonalds. Burne-Jones married one of the MacDonald daughters; Mr. Poynter, now Director of the National Gallery, another; Mr. Kipling still another with Rudyard Kipling as a result, followed in due course by Mulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd, who are quite as immortal as the rest.
But if it seems to be getting late, look him up. He may fall asleep." After repeated indignant refusals which Mr. Poynter characteristically splintered, Diane, intensely curious, went with Mr. Poynter to the hay-camp for supper.
What with the ringing in my ears and the dizziness and his face so dark with anger and digging my heels in the ground to keep my knees from folding up under me I I thought I should go quite mad, quite mad, my dear. He he meant to kill Mr. Poynter?" "Yes," said Diane with a shudder. "Yes. I think so."
Conscientiously silent when his wife wished to discuss literature with her new discoveries, Lord Poynter became dutifully loquacious when exposed defenceless to the task of entertaining them and took refuge in gusty, nervous geniality or odd, sly confidences on matters of no moment. "Aren't you drinking any port wine?" he demanded of Eric after brooding indecision. "Thank you, yes.
Old Poynter is a pirate, an unscrupulous, money-mad, villainous old pirate and he did something or other most unpleasant to Dad in Wall Street. And would you believe it, Susanne, Philip went fuming off huffily to some ridiculous little mountain kingdom in Europe that he was awfully keen about Houdania and rented himself out as a secretary to Baron Tregar. Just imagine!
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