There on the threshold, as stiff as a ramrod,
and with his hateful eyes uncovering their gleam, Lord Coombe was
standing--no other than Lord Coombe.
Having a sharp working knowledge of her world, Andrews knew that
it was all up. He had come upstairs deliberately. She knew what
he had come for. He was as clever as he was bad, and he had seen
something when he glanced at her in the drawing-room. Now he had
heard and seen her as she dragged Robin from under the bed. He'd
come up for that--for some queer evil reason of his own. The
promptings of a remote gutter training made her feel a desire to
use language such as she still had wisdom enough to restrain.
"You are a very great fool, young woman," he said. "You have
nothing but your character as a nurse to live on. A scene in a
police court would ruin you. There is a Society which interferes
with nursery torture."
Robin, freed from the iron grasp, had slunk behind a chair. He
was there again.
Andrews' body, automatically responsive to rule and habit, rose from
its seat and stood before this member of a class which required
an upright position. She knew better than to attempt to excuse or
explain. She had heard about the Society and she knew publicity would
spell ruin and starvation. She had got herself into an appalling
mess. Being caught--there you were. But that this evil-reputationed
swell should actually have been awakened by some whim to notice
and follow her up was "past her," as she would have put it.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184