"Right you are, my duck!" he exclaimed at last. "It's my
own sweet wife!"
He had spoken with a laugh, but he had changed colour, and Maisie
quickly looked away from him. "Then who is it with her?"
"Blest if I know!" said Sir Claude.
"Is it Mr. Perriam?"
"Oh dear no--Perriam's smashed."
"Smashed?"
"Exposed--in the City. But there are quantities of others!" Sir Claude
smiled.
Maisie appeared to count them; she studied the gentleman's back. "Then
is this Lord Eric?"
For a moment her companion made no answer, and when she turned her eyes
again to him he was looking at her, she thought, rather queerly. "What
do you know about Lord Eric?"
She tried innocently to be odd in return. "Oh I know more than you
think! Is it Lord Eric?" she repeated.
"It maybe. Blest if I care!"
Their friends had slightly separated and now, as Sir Claude spoke,
suddenly faced round, showing all the splendour of her ladyship and all
the mystery of her comrade. Maisie held her breath. "They're coming!"
"Let them come." And Sir Claude, pulling out his cigarettes, began to
strike a light.
"We shall meet them!"
"No. They'll meet US."
Maisie stood her ground. "They see us. Just look."
Sir Claude threw away his match. "Come straight on." The others, in the
return, evidently startled, had half-paused again, keeping well apart.
"She's horribly surprised and wants to slope," he continued. "But it's
too late."
Maisie advanced beside him, making out even across the interval that her
ladyship was ill at ease.
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