'No.'

'He hinted to me--just a little anxiety. I hardly know whether I ought to speak of it.'

Alma looked an interrogation as unconcerned as she could make it, but did not open her lips.

'It was with reference to--your man of business. It seems he has heard something--I really don't know what--not quite favourable to Mr. Dymes.

I shall not offend you, dear?'

'I don't take offence, Mrs. Strangeways,' Alma answered, with a slight laugh to cover her uneasiness. 'It's so old-fashioned.'

The hostess uttered a thin trill of merriment.

'One is always safe with people who have humour, dear. It _does_ make life easier, doesn't it? Oh, the terrible persons who take everything with tragic airs! Well, there's not a bit of harm in it. Between ourselves, it struck me that our friend was just a little inclined to be--yes, you understand.'

'I'm afraid I don't.'

'I hate the word--well, just a trifle jealous.'

Alma leaned back in her chair, glanced about her, and said nothing.

'Of course, he would never allow _you_ to suspect anything of the kind.

It will make no difference. You can count upon his utmost efforts. But when one thinks how very much he has it in his power to do----. That bit of writing in the _West End_, you know--only the highest influence can command that kind of thing. The _West End_ can't be bought, I a.s.sure you. And one has to think of the future. A good beginning is much, but how many musicians are able to follow it up? My dear Alma, let me implore you not to imagine that you will be able to dispense with this kind of help.'

'Do you mean that Mr. Redgrave is likely to withdraw it?'

'Impossible for me to say, dear. I am only telling you how his conversation struck me. He appeared to think--to be apprehensive that you might in future look to Mr. Dymes rather than to him. Of course, I could say nothing--I would not venture a syllable.'

'Of course not,' Alma murmured mechanically, her eyes wandering.

'Are you likely, I wonder, to see him in the next few days?'

'I hardly know--I think not.'

'Then let me--will you?--let me contrive a _chance_ meeting here.'

Loathing herself, and burning with hatred of the woman, in whose hands she felt powerless, Alma gave an a.s.senting nod.

'I am sure it will be a measure of prudence, dear. I thought possibly you might be seeing him at Mrs. Carnaby's. He is there sometimes, I believe?'

Alma looked at the speaker, detecting some special significance in her inquiry. She replied that Redgrave of course called upon Mrs.

Carnaby--but not often, she thought.

'No?' threw out Mrs. Strangeways. 'I fancied he was there a good deal; I don't quite know why.'

'Have you met him there?'

'No. It's quite a long time since I called--one has so many people to see.'

Alma knew that Sibyl was now holding aloof from Mrs. Strangeways, and it seemed not improbable that this had excited some ill-feeling in the latter. But her own uneasiness regarding Sibyl's relations with Redgrave, uneasiness never quite subdued; made her quick to note, and eager to explore, any seeming suspicion on that subject in another's mind. Mrs. Strangeways was a lover of scandal, a dangerous woman, unworthy of confidence in any matter whatsoever. Common prudence, to say nothing of loyalty to a friend, bade Alma keep silence; but the subtly-interrogating smile was fixed upon her; hints continued to fall upon her ear, and an evil fascination at length compelled her to speak.

'You know,' she said, as if mentioning an unimportant piece of news, 'that Mr. Redgrave has joined Mr. Carnaby in business?'

The listener's face exhibited a surprise of which there was no mistaking the sincerity. Her very features seemed to undergo a change as the smile vanished from them; they became on the instant hard and old, lined with sudden wrinkles, the muscles tense, every line expressive of fierce vigilance.

'In business?--what business?'

'Oh, I thought you would have heard of it. Perhaps Mr. Redgrave doesn't care to have it known.'

'My dear, I am discretion itself.'

Everything was told, down to the last detail of which Alma had any knowledge. As she listened and questioned, Mrs. Strangeways resumed her smiling manner, but could not regain the perfect self-command with which she had hitherto gossiped. That she attached great importance to this news was evident, and the fact of its being news to her brought fresh trouble into Alma's thoughts.

'How very interesting!' exclaimed Mrs. Strangeways at length. 'Another instance of Mr. Redgrave's kindness to his friends. Of course, it was done purely out of kindness, and that is why he doesn't speak of it.

Quite amusing, isn't it, to think of him as partner in a business of that kind. I wonder whether----'

She broke off with a musing air.

'What were you wondering?' asked Alma, whose agitation increased every moment, though the seeming tendency of her companion's words was to allay every doubt.

'Oh, only whether it was _Mr_ Carnaby who first made known his difficulties.'

'I am told so.'

'By Mrs. Carnaby? Yes, no doubt it was so. I don't think Mrs. Carnaby could quite have--I mean she is a little reserved, don't you think? She would hardly have spoken about it to--to a comparative stranger.'

'But Mr. Redgrave can't be called a stranger,' said Alma. 'They have been friends for a long time. Surely you know that.'

'Friends in _that_ sense? The word has such different meanings. You and Mr. Redgrave are friends, but I don't think you would care to tell him if your husband were in difficulties of that kind--would you?'

'But Sibyl--Mrs. Carnaby didn't tell him,' replied Alma, with nervous vehemence.

'No, no; we take that for granted. I don't think Mr. Carnaby is--the kind of man----'

'What kind of man?'

'I hardly know him; we have met, that's all. But I should fancy he wouldn't care to know that his wife talked about such things to Mr Redgrave or any one else. There _are_ men'--her voice sank, and the persistent smile became little better than an ugly grin--'there _are_ men who don't mind it. One hears stories I shouldn't like to repeat to you, or even to hint at. But those are very different people from the Carnabys. Then, I suppose,' she added, with abrupt turn, 'Mr. Carnaby is very often away from home?'

Trying to reply, Alma found her voice obstructed.

'I think so.'

'How very kind of Mr. Redgrave, wasn't it! Has he spoken about it to _you_?'

'Of course not.'

'Naturally, he wouldn't.--Oh, don't go yet, dear. Why, we have had no tea; it isn't four o'clock. Must you really go? Of course, you are overwhelmed with engagements. But do--do take care of your health. And remember our little scheme. If Mr. Redgrave could look in--say, the day after tomorrow? You shall hear from me in time. I feel--I really feel--that it wouldn't be wise to let him think--you understand me.'

With scarce a word of leave-taking, Alma hastened away. The air of this room was stifling her, and the low cooing voice had grown more intolerable than a clanging uproar. From Porchester Terrace she walked into Bayswater Road, her eyes on the pavement. It was a sunny afternoon, but there had been showers, and now again large spots of rain began to fall. As she was opening her umbrella, a cabman's voice appealed to her, and fixed her purpose. She bade him drive her to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions.