"Harry Luttrell!" he exclaimed. "You are sure? He is in England?"
"Yes. I met him in Piccadilly outside Jerningham's"—she mentioned the great outfitters and provision merchants—"he told me that he had run across you in the Sudan. What made you say that you hadn't?"
Hillyard was taken at a loss.
"Well?" she insisted.
Hillyard could see no escape except by the way of absolute frankness.
"Because I gave him your message, Mrs. Croyle," he replied slowly, "and I judged that he was not going to answer it."
Stella Croyle was inclined to think that the world was banded against her, to deceive her and to do her harm. They had all been engaged, Hardiman and the rest of them, in keeping Harry Luttrell away from her: in defending him, whether he wished it or not, from the wiles of the enchantress. Stella Croyle was quick enough in the up-take where her wounded heart was not concerned, but she was never very clear in any judgment which affected Harry Luttrell. Passion and disappointment and hope drew veils between the truth and her, and she dived below the plain reason to this or that far-fetched notion for the springs of his conduct. Almost she had persuaded herself that Harry Luttrell, by the powerful influence of friends, was being kept against his will from her side. Her anger against Hillyard had sprung, not from the mere fact that he had lied to her, but from her fancy that he had joined the imaginary band of her enemies. She understood now that in this she had been wrong.
"I see," she said gently. "It was to spare me pain?"
"Yes."
Suddenly Stella Croyle laughed—and with triumph. She showed to Hillyard a face from which all the anger had gone.