He found something
in the bronzed, rugged face that was unusually sardonic. The blue
eyes seemed to have become hard, and yet there were wrinkles about
their corners suggestive of humour that might be mockery. The Count
stiffened; but beyond that he preserved his outward calm whilst
confessing that he did not understand Sir Terence's meaning.
"It's this way," said Sir Terence. "I've noticed that ye're not
looking so very well lately, Count."
"Really? You think that?" The words were mechanical. The dark
eyes continued to scrutinise that bronzed face suspiciously.
"I do, and it's sorry I am to see it. But I know what it is. It's
this walking backwards and forwards between here and Bispo that's
doing the mischief. Better give it up, Count. Better not come
toiling up here any more. It's not good for your health. Why, man,
ye're as white as a ghost this minute."
He was indeed, having perceived at last the insult intended. To be
denied the house at such a time was to checkmate his designs, to set
a term upon his crafty and subtle espionage, precisely in the season
when he hoped to reap its harvest. But his chagrin sprang not at
all from that. His cold anger was purely personal.
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