ing only the Virginia estate, and retired from the business. I did not see him at his death—I was traveling in Europe with a companion; he died suddenly, from a stroke of apoplexy, lapsing into unconsciousness and regaining consciousness only a few seconds before he died. Ignace Teck was with him. He⸺”
“Ignace Teck?” queried Val. “Who is he?”
“You’ve seen him—the man who called at my place yesterday when you were there. He⸺”
“The man without hands?”
She nodded. “The man without hands—I didn’t know you saw that. He usually keeps his hands in his pockets when strangers are present.”
She was silent for a moment, unaccountably. So was Val—he was wondering who this Ignace Teck was, with his hard, sinister countenance, his small, cruelly calculating eyes. She played with a crumb on the table, the long lashes fringing her eyes like willow at the edge of a pond, but he noticed that her slender hand trembled just a little as her fingers continued their aimless playing. Evidently there was a great deal about this man for one to know, thought Val. Ignace Teck! The very name sounded ominous. He broke the silence at last, seeing that if he did not there was scarcely any telling when she would resume—and he was interested in her recital—interested in the liquid cadences of her voice.
“Just who is this man?” he asked finally, making his voice as careless as possible. “Where does he come into this thing, anyway?”
Her hands ceased their playing with the breadcrumbs and her eyes no longer shaded by the lashes, looked directly into his for a brief instant. Then, slowly, in a voice as hard as flint, and as dry as a country road in summer, she answered him briefly.
“He is my fiancé,” she said.
