"Oh, I say—" It was Carleigh who made the attempt this time.
"No, you needn't speak," Mrs. Veynol checked him. "You are a gentleman and wish to take the blame on your own shoulders; but, no matter what you said, I shouldn't believe you. Fortunately, I know my own daughter at last."
"It—it was the only way," Rosamond faltered.
"It was a very wicked way. Still, I don't see how I am to blame you. Caryll is so fascinating it is all I can do to resist him myself. But—oh, dear, I had quite forgotten!"
She turned abruptly to where a fair-haired young man, slightly round-shouldered, stood hat in hand behind her. "Let me present Mr. Miles O'Connor, Lady Carleigh—Sir Caryll Carleigh."
Rosamond inclined her head, and Carleigh bowed a little stiffly. Mr. Miles O'Connor withdrew a tentatively advanced hand.
"Mr. O'Connor," explained Mrs. Veynol, "is the sub-editor of British Society. It was through him that I located you. How he managed it I don't know. I am curious myself; but he tells me it is an office secret, which is equivalent to a secret of the confessional."
Neither Sir Caryll nor his wife spoke. Both would have liked to cut out the tongue that had betrayed them.
"Mr. O'Connor came with me from London. He has been most kind and considerate. I can never hope to repay him."
"Has British Society ceased publication?" asked Carleigh bitingly.