When the flames had been conquered, the three occupants of the shed looked at each other without a word. Strange to say, under the steady gaze of Raphael Craig, Richard’s eyes blinked, and he glanced in another direction—up at the little window in the opposite wall where he had seen the face of Micky, but where the face of Micky was no longer on view. Then he looked again at Raphael Craig, whose dark orbs seemed to ask accusingly: ‘What are you doing here?’ And, despite the fact that he had in all probability been the means of saving Teresa’s life, he could not avoid the absurd sensation of having been caught in a misdeed. He felt as if he must explain his presence to Raphael Craig. At that juncture, we are obliged to confess, his imperturbability deserted him for a space.
‘I—I happened to be passing the end of the road,’ he said lamely, ‘and I saw what I took to be a flame, so I ran along—and found—this, I’m glad it’s no worse.’
‘So am I,’ said Raphael Craig, with cold gravity.
Teresa was silent.
‘I’m glad I was in time,’ said Richard, as awkwardly as a boy.
‘I’m glad you were,’ Mr. Craig agreed.
‘It is possible that my daughter owes her life to you. I cannot imagine how I could have been so careless with that petrol. It was inexcusable. We thank you, Mr. Redgrave, for your services so admirably rendered.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Richard; ‘that’s nothing at all.’
The whole interview was becoming too utterly ridiculous. But what could be said or done? It was the heaps of silver coins lying about that rendered the situation so extremely difficult. Useless for Raphael Craig to pretend that he and Teresa had been engaged in some perfectly usual and common-place task. Useless for Richard, notwithstanding his lame explanation, to pretend that he had not been spying. The heaps of silver made all parties excessively self-conscious, and when you are self-conscious you can never say the right thing in the right manner.
It was Raphael Craig who first, so to speak, came to himself.