"Mr. Colquhoun has been telling me what to do," she said, "and I think that he is right. Dino Vasari has already gone back to Italy, but before he went, he signed a paper relinquishing all claim to the property in favour of Brian Luttrell and myself. Mr. Colquhoun says it was a useless thing to do, except as it shows his generosity and kindness of heart, and that it would not be valid in a court at all; but that nothing farther can be done, as he does not press his claim, until Brian Luttrell comes back to England or writes instructions. There might be a friendly suit when he came; but that would be left for him (and, I suppose, myself) to decide. When he comes we shall try to get Dino Vasari back, and have a friendly consultation over the matter. I don't see why we need have lawyers to interfere at all. I should resign the property with a very good grace, but Mr. Colquhoun thinks that Mr. Luttrell will have scruples."
"He ought to have," muttered Percival, but Elizabeth took no notice.
"It seems that he went in a sailing vessel," she went on, in a perfectly calm and collected voice, "because he could get a very cheap passage in that way. Mr. Colquhoun proposes that we should write to Pernambuco; but he might not be expecting any letters—he might miss them—and go up the country; there is no knowing. I think that a responsible, intelligent person ought to be sent out by a fast steamer and wait for him at Pernambuco. Then everything would be satisfactorily explained and enforced—better than by letter. Mr. Colquhoun says he feels inclined to go himself."
She gave a soft, pleased laugh as she said the words; but there was excitement and trouble underneath its apparent lightness. "That, of course, would never do; but he has a clerk whom he can thoroughly trust, and he will start next week for the Brazils."
Percival sat mute. Had she no idea that he was suffering? She went on quickly.
"Mr. Salt—that is the clerk's name—will reach Pernambuco many days before the sailing vessel; but it is better that he should be too early than too late. They may even pass the Falcon—that is the name of Mr. Luttrell's ship—on the way. The worst is"—and here her voice began to tremble—"that Mr. Colquhoun has heard a report that the Falcon was not—not—quite—sea-worthy."
She put up one gloved hand and dashed a tear from her eyes. Percival's silence exasperated her. For almost the first time she turned upon him with a reproach.
"Will you remember," she said, bitterly, "if his ship goes to the bottom, that you might have stopped him, and—did not think it worth while to take the trouble?"
"Good God, Elizabeth, how unjust you are!" cried Percival, impetuously.
Elizabeth did not answer. She had to put up her hand again and again to wipe away her tears. The strain of self-control had been a severe one, and when it once slipped away from her the emotion had to have its own way. Percival tried to take the reins from her, but this she would not allow; and they were going uphill on a quiet sheltered road of which the ponies knew every step as well as he did himself.