Sophy staggered. The old lawyer offered his arm. He looked almost as pale as she did. He wanted to fetch her a glass of brandy, but she would not have it.
"I shall be quite right ... quite right in a moment," she kept gasping. She bent her head as she walked beside him, struggling with a desire to burst into inane laughter. Hateful throes of hysteria convulsed her throat. She overcame them by a violent effort of will that left her feeling weaker than ever. She clung blindly to Mr. Surtees' arm, stumbling now and then.
"I reserved a compartment in the London train," he told her. "Do you wish your maid to go with us, or in the next compartment?"
"Not with us," murmured Sophy. "I wish to talk with you quite alone."
She regained her composure little by little, and as soon as the train was under way turned to him and said in a firm voice:
"Mr. Surtees—what did Lady Wychcote say to you about me?— What reason did she give for abducting my son?"
The solicitor flushed and his eyes fell away from hers.
"If you will excuse me a moment, Mrs. Chesney," he answered, "there is a paper in my bag that I would like to show you. I ... a ... have embodied in writing the gist of her ladyship's ... a ... remarks."
He opened a small black bag as he spoke and took out a legal looking paper. He half unfolded it, glanced nervously at its contents, then hesitated.
"It is most painful to me to have to submit this document to you, Mrs. Chesney," he said, distress in his voice. "I beg you to believe that I have never had a more painful duty to perform."