He was most carefully dressed and carried in his hand a
long paper parcel that could contain nothing but flowers. Upon some excuse
I prevailed upon Eve to cross the road. There was one small brass plate
only on the side of the entrance through which Mr. Bundercombe had
disappeared. It was scarcely larger than my hand and on it was engraved in
very elegant characters: BLANCHE MANICURE.
I made no comment at the time, but curiously enough that afternoon, as we
sat out under the trees at Ranelagh, Eve referred to the subject of her
parent. "Do you notice, Paul," she asked, "how much less we see of dad
lately?"
"He does seem to have been out a good deal," I admitted.
She glanced at me.
"You haven't any idea, I suppose--"
The glance and her tone were quite sufficient for me. I hastened to
disclaim all responsibility for Mr. Bundercombe.
"Your father," I assured her, "has never treated me with less confidence.
Whatever he may be doing at present, he is doing, let me assure you,
entirely on his own responsibility."
"Then I think, if you don't mind, please," she begged, "you must try and
get him to take you into his confidence. Of course," she went on, watching
idly a polo team canter into the field, "I do not wish you to feel that he
is in any way a responsibility.
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