Mrs. Mannering and Hester came down the grey stone steps and crossed towards their own table.  The former lingered for a moment as she passed Sir Leslie, who rose to greet the two women.

“Another glorious day!” he remarked.  “What news from Leeds?”

“None,” she said.  “My husband seldom writes.”

Sir Leslie smiled reflectively, and glanced towards the pile of papers at his side.

“Perhaps,” she remarked, “you know better than I do how things are going there.”

He shook his head.

“I have no correspondents in Leeds,” he answered.

At that moment a puff of wind disturbed the papers by his side.  A telegram would have fluttered away, but Blanche Mannering caught it at the edge of the table.  She was handing it back, when a curious expression on Borrowdean’s face inspired her with a sudden idea.  She deliberately looked at the telegram, and her fingers stiffened upon it.  His forward movement was checked.  She stood just out of his reach.

“No correspondents in Leeds,” she repeated.  “Then what about this telegram?”

“You will permit me to remind you,” he said, stretching out his hand for it, “that it is addressed to me.”

Her hands were behind her.  She leaned over towards him.

“It can be addressed to you a thousand times over,” she answered, “but before I part with it I want to know what it means.”

Borrowdean was thinking quickly.  He wanted to gain time.

“I do not even know which document you have—­purloined,” he said.

“It is from Leeds,” she answered, “and it is signed Polden.  ’Parkins found, has made statement, appears to-night.’  Can you explain what this means, Sir Leslie Borrowdean?”

Her voice was scarcely raised above a whisper, but there was a dangerous glitter in her eyes.  There were few traces left of the woman whom once before he had found so easy a tool.

“I cannot tell you,” he answered.  “It is not an affair for you to concern yourself with at all.”

“Not an affair for me to concern myself about!” she repeated, leaning a little over towards him.  “Isn’t it my husband against whom you are scheming?  Don’t I know what low tricks you are capable of?  Isn’t this another proof of it?  Not an affair for me to concern myself about, indeed!  Didn’t you worm the whole miserable story out of me?”

“My dear Mrs. Mannering!”

She checked a torrent of words.  Her bosom was heaving underneath her lace blouse.  She was pale almost to the lips.  The sudden and complete disuse of all manner of cosmetics had to a certain extent blanched her face.  There was room there now for the writing of tragedy.  Borrowdean, still outwardly suave, was inwardly cursing the unlucky chance which had blown the telegram her way.

“Might I suggest,” he said, in a low tone, “that we postpone our conversation till after breakfast time?  The waiters seem to be favouring us with a great deal of attention, and several of them understand English.”