The tinkling of glasses and the sort murmuring of whispered conversation had ceased during Francis' story. Every one was a little affected--the soft throbbing of the violins upon the balcony was almost a relief. Then there was a little murmur of sympathetic remarks--but amongst it all Trent sat at the head of the table with white, set face but with red fire before his eyes. This man had played him false. He dared not look at Ernestine--only he knew that her eyes were wet with tears and that her bosom was heaving. The spirits of men and women who sup are mercurial things, and it was a gay leave-taking half an hour or so later in the little Moorish room at the head of the staircase. But Ernestine left her host without even appearing to see his outstretched hand, and he let her go without a word. Only when Francis would have followed her Trent laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder. “I must have a word with you, Francis,” he said. “I will come back,” he said. “I must see Miss Wendermott into her carriage.” But Trent's hand remained there, a grip of iron from which there was no escaping. He said nothing, but Francis knew his man and had no idea of making a scene. So he remained till the last had gone and a tall, black servant had brought their coats from the cloak-room. “You will come with me please,” Trent said, “I have a few words to say to you.” Francis shrugged his shoulders and obeyed. CHAPTER XXXIX Scarcely a word passed between the two men until they found themselves in the smoking-room of Trent's house. A servant noiselessly arranged decanters and cigars upon the sideboard, and, in response to an impatient movement of Trent's, withdrew. Francis lit a cigarette. Trent, contrary to his custom, did not smoke. He walked to the door and softly locked it. Then he returned and stood looking down at his companion. “Francis,” he said, “you have been my enemy since the day I saw you first in Bekwando village.” “Scarcely that,” Francis objected. “I have distrusted you since then if you like.” “Call it what you like,” Trent answered. “Only to-night you have served me a scurvy trick. You were a guest at my table and you gave me not the slightest warning. On the contrary, this morning you offered me a week's respite.” “The story I told,” Francis answered, “could have had no significance to them.” “I don't know whether you are trying to deceive me or not,” Trent said, “only if you do not know, let me tell you--Miss Wendermott is that old man's daughter!” The man's start was real. There was no doubt about that. “And she knew?” “She knew that he had been in Africa, but she believed that he had died there. What she believes at this moment I cannot tell. Your story evidently moved her. She will probably try to find out from you the truth.” Francis nodded. “She has asked me to call upon her to-morrow.” “Exactly. Now, forgive my troubling you with personal details, but you've got to understand. I mean Miss Wendermott to be my wife.”