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Updated: June 4, 2025
Richardson looked half fearfully around. "What for?" "Attempted murder! Very clumsily attempted, but attempted murder none the less." The young man collapsed. Wingrave's servant came down the deck. "You sent for me, sir?" he inquired respectfully. Wingrave pointed towards his companion. "Was that the person whom you saw coming out of my state room?" he asked. "Yes sir," the man replied at once.
"And how old are you?" "Fourteen next birthday." "And all that time," he asked, "has there been no one living at Tredowen?" "No one except Mrs. Tresfarwin," she answered. "It belongs to a very rich man who is in prison." Wingrave's face was immovable. He stood on one side, however, and turned towards his companion.
The room was in darkness save for one electric light. A groan, however, directed them. She fell on her knees by Wingrave's prostrate figure and raised his head slightly. His servant, too, was hurrying forward. She looked up. "Get me some brandy," she ordered. "Send someone for a doctor. Don't let that young man escape. The brandy, quick!" She forced some between his lips.
Wingrave's tall footman and the policeman formed an impassable barrier in a moment the electric brougham was gliding down the street. Lady Ruth was leaning back amongst the cushions, and the hand which fell suddenly upon Wingrave's was cold as ice! "You saw who that was?" Lady Ruth's voice seemed to come from a greater distance. Wingrave turned and looked at her with calm curiosity.
I could not live here any longer now that I know. Fancy for a moment that I am your sister, or your daughter! Don't you believe, really, that she would feel the same? And I think you would wish her to. Don't be angry with me, please." Wingrave's face never changed; but his fingers gripped the arms of his chair so that a signet ring he wore cut deep into his flesh.
Afterwards, he watched her turn with slow, reluctant footsteps to the unpromising abode which she had pointed out. Aynesworth made his way to the inn, cursing his impecuniosity and Wingrave's brutal indifference. He found the latter busy writing letters. "Doing your work, Aynesworth?" he remarked coldly.
I have something to say to you." For several minutes Lady Ruth said nothing. She was leaning back in the farthest corner of her chair, her head resting slightly upon her fingers, her eyes studying with a curious intentness the outline of Wingrave's pale, hard face.
Wingrave's lips parted in what should have been a smile, but the spirit of mirth was lacking. "And then?" "There was nothing else," Aynesworth answered. "She simply dismissed me." "I can see," Wingrave remarked, "your grievance. You are annoyed because she regarded you as too easy a victim." "Perhaps," Aynesworth admitted. "There was some excuse for her, after all," Wingrave continued coolly.
He addressed Wingrave. "A lady has arrived in a cab from Truro, sir," he announced. "She wishes to see you as soon as convenient." A sudden light flashed across Wingrave's face, dying out again almost immediately. "Who is she, Morrison?" he asked. The man glanced at Mr. Pengarth. "She did not give her name, sir." Mr. Pengarth and Wingrave both rose.
There was no shadow of embarrassment about her manner, notwithstanding the cold stiffness of Wingrave's deportment. He sat where the sunlight fell across his chair, and the lines in his pale face seemed deeper than usual, the grey hairs more plentiful, the weariness in his eyes more apparent. Yet she was not in the least afraid of him.
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