"Isn't she a friend of yours?" asked the Foreign Secretary rather
sharply. Though I couldn't see him, I knew exactly how he would be
looking at Ivor, his keen grey eyes narrowed, his clean-shaven lips
drawn in, the long, well-shaped hand, of which he is said to be vain,
toying with the pale Malmaison pink he always wears in his buttonhole.
"Yes, she is a friend of mine," Ivor answered. "But--"
"A 'but' already! Perhaps I'd better tell you that the mission has to do
with Mademoiselle de Renzie, and, directly, with no one else. She has
acted as my agent in Paris."
"Indeed! I didn't dream that she dabbled in politics."
"And you should not dream it from any word of mine, Mr. Dundas, if it
weren't necessary to be entirely open with you, if you are to help me in
this matter. But before we go any further, I must know whether
Mademoiselle de Renzie's connection with this business will for any
reason keep you out of it."
"Not if--you need my help," said Ivor, with an effort. "And I beg you
won't suppose that my hesitation has anything to do with Miss de Renzie
herself. I have for her the greatest respect and admiration."
"We all have," returned the Foreign Secretary, "especially those who
know her best.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35