"I was in England for a short while in September," said I, regretting the haste with which I had spoken.
"September of last year?"
"Of last year."
"Anno Domini 1685," laughed Culverton. "There seems to be some doubt about the date."
"September, 1685," repeated the Countess with a curious insistency.
"There is no doubt," returned Marston hotly. "I could wish for Betty's sake we had not such cause to remember it. She was betrothed to one of Monmouth's rebels, curse him! and Betty was so distressed by his capture that her health gave way."
I was upon tenterhooks lest Ilga should inquire the name of the rebel. But she merely remarked in an absent way, as though she attached no significance to his words:
"'Tis a sad story."
"In truth it is, and the only consolation we got from it was that the rebel swung for his treachery. Betty was ordered forthwith abroad, and she left England on the fourteenth of September. I remember the day particularly since it was her birthday."
"September the fourteenth!" said the Countess; and I, thinking to make out my case beyond dispute, cried triumphantly: