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Updated: June 16, 2025
There, on the top of a pile of legal-looking documents, leases, title-deeds, and the like, was a long envelope, and across it in Duncombe's sprawling writing these few words: "Entrusted to me by Miss Poynton. Sept. 4th." He grasped it in his fingers and tore open the envelope. As he read the single page of closely written writing his eyes seemed almost to protrude. He gave a little gasp.
As it is I have finished with l'affaire Poynton for the present. You see how very nearly l'affaire Poynton finished me." "It is not like you," Duncombe said thoughtfully, "to give anything up." "We come face to face sometimes with unique experiences, which destroy precedent," Spencer answered. "This is one of them." "And what," Duncombe asked, "do you advise me to do?"
No, I will go further than that. It is the greatest event since Waterloo." "L'affaire Poynton strikes so deep?" Spencer remarked. "So deep," the Baron answered. "It is the fools who grope their way into great places. So did the boy Poynton. You, my friend, shall be the one brilliant exception.
She said that she was not Phyllis Poynton, and to me she never was Phyllis Poynton. She was afraid of you, and I helped her to avoid you. I admit it! It is the extent of my failing in our friendship, and you were warned." "And now?" "I am here now," Duncombe said a little sadly, "because I love her, and because I cannot keep away.
"If she goes about alone she'll get badly scared before she's finished." Phyllis Poynton drove straight back to her hotel and went to her room. A sympathetic chambermaid followed her in. "Mademoiselle has news yet of her brother?" she inquired. Mademoiselle shook her head. Indeed her face was sufficient answer. "None at all, Marie." The chambermaid closed the door.
"Guy Poynton whilst on the Continent became the chance possessor of an important State secret. He was followed to France by spies from that country we will call it Germany and the young lady who awaits you so impatiently is, if not one of them, at least one of their friends.
"Mademoiselle flatters me!" he murmured, more than a little astonished. "Not in the least," she answered. "I have been waiting to ask you what has become of my brother Guy Poynton!" He drew out the chair and seated himself. His eyes never left her face. "Mademoiselle," he murmured, "this is most extraordinary!" She noticed then that his hands were trembling.
Barton had entered into family relations as an honest man; he could give himself any character he chose until he was found out. He was too frightened to stay another night on Bendigo, and he began at once to bundle up his swag. Gleeson and Poynton accompanied him for some distance beyond the pillar of white quartz on Specimen Hill, and then he left the track and struck into the bush.
"Events march rapidly to-day. To be effective that paper must be in Paris to-morrow. The necessity for its production arose only a few hours ago." "You ask me, then," Duncombe said slowly, "to hand over to you a paper which was placed in my charge by Miss Poynton?" "In effect yes!" "I cannot do it!" Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders. "I do not insist," he remarked.
"Well, in the meantime?" "There is nothing to be gained by framing absurd hypotheses. I don't mind telling you, Andrew, that I find Miss Fielding the most delightful girl I ever met in my life." "Tell me exactly, George, how she compares with the photograph you have of Phyllis Poynton." Duncombe sipped his wine slowly. "She is very like it," he said, "and yet there are differences.
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