He returned with certain information, absorbed by Senhouse with far-
sighted patient eyes and in silence. The only indication he afforded was
inscrutable. His cheek-bones twitched flickeringly, like summer lightning
about the hills.
Sanchia, Glyde said, was well and in London. She was living in a street
off Berkeley Square, with an old lady who wore side-curls and shawls, and
drove out every afternoon in a barouche with two stout horses and two lean
men-servants. Sanchia sometimes accompanied her, stiff and pliant at once,
bright-eyed and faintly coloured. She was taken about to parties also, and
to the opera--and very often there were parties at the old lady's house--
carriage-company, and gentleman in furred coats, who came in hansom cabs.
He thought that she had suitors. There was a tall, thin man who came very
often in the afternoons. He was sallow and melancholy, and wore a silk
muffler day and night. Glyde thought that he was a foreigner, perhaps a
Hungarian or Pole.
He had seen Sanchia often, but she could not have caught a glimpse of him.
He admitted that he had haunted the house, had seen her come out and go
in, knew when she dressed for dinner and when she went to bed.
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