“An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. “Limp,” he answered. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. Fortescue’s steps, and encountered him with an air of artless surprise. It struck the major that she was very young. Wait a little; rest. “—but this cannot be.
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