The Malefactor HTML version

II.10. I Am Misanthropos, And Hate Mankind
Wingrave had just come in from an early gallop. His pale cheeks were slightly flushed,
and his eyes were bright. He had been riding hard to escape from disconcerting thoughts.
He looked in at the study, and found Aynesworth with a mass of correspondence before
"Anything important?" he asked.
"Not yet," Aynesworth answered. "The letters marked private I have sent up to your
room. By the bye, there was something I wanted to tell you."
Wingrave closed the door.
"Well?" he said.
"I was up in the gallery of the Opera House last night," Aynesworth said, "with a--person
who saw you only once, soon after I first came to you--before America. You were some
distance away, and yet--my friend recognized you."
Wingrave shrugged his shoulders.
"That, of course, is possible," he answered. "It really does not matter so very much unless
they knew me--as Wingrave Seton!"
"My friend," Aynesworth said, "recognized you as Sir Wingrave Seton."
Wingrave frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
"Who was it?" he asked.
"A most unlikely person," Aynesworth remarked smiling. "Do you remember, when we
went down to Tredowen just before we left for America, a little, long-legged, black-
frocked child, whom we met in the gardens--the organist's daughter, you know?"
"What of her?" Wingrave asked.
"It was she who was with me," Aynesworth remarked. "It was she who saw you in the
box with the Marchioness of Westchester."
Aynesworth was puzzled by the intentness with which Wingrave was regarding him.
Impenetrable though the man was, Aynesworth, who had not yet lost his early trick of