Lord Blenavon was still there, and we saw him.

He was suffering from wounds such as in the darkness I had inflicted upon my assailant of the night before." It seemed to me that even then the Duke would not, or could not, understand.

His brows were knitted into a heavy frown, and he was evidently following my story with close attention.

But exactly where I was going to lead, he seemed to have no idea.
"The tenant of Braster Grange," I continued, "is a Mrs.Smith-Lessing, whom Colonel Ray has told me is a servant of the French secret police.
I am afraid that Lord Blenavon has been a good deal under her influence." Then the Duke blazed out, which was very much what I expected from him.
Horror, amazement, and scornful disbelief were all expressed in his transfigured face and angry words.
"Blenavon! My son! The confederate of a French spy! What nonsense! Who dares to suggest such a thing?
Angela--I--I beg your pardon." He stopped short, making an effort to regain his self-control.

He continued in a more collected manner, but his voice still shook with inexpressible scorn.
"Angela," he said, turning to her, "is it within your knowledge that Blenavon had any acquaintance with this person ?" I think that her face might well have answered him: very white it was, and very sorrowful.
"Blenavon met Mrs.Smith-Lessing, I believe, at Bordighera," she said.
"I have seen them together several times." "Here ?" the Duke asked sharply.
"Yes, I have seen them riding on the sands, and Blenavon dined there on the night--Mr.Ducaine has been speaking of." "Blenavon is a fool!" the Duke said.