"Foster," he said—"your name is Foster, isn't it? Where did you find that dagger?"
"You must keep quiet," I said. "I have sent for assistance."
"Don't be a fool, man. You know I'm done for. Tell me how you got the dagger."
So I told him.
"Ah!" he murmured. "It's my luck!" he sighed. Then in little detached sentences, with many pauses, he began to relate a history of what happened after Rosa and I had left him on the night of Sullivan's reception. Much of it was incomprehensible to me; sometimes I could not make out the words. But it seemed that he had followed us in his carriage, had somehow met Rosa again, and then, in a sudden frenzy of remorse, had attempted to kill himself with the dagger in the street. His reason for this I did not gather. His coachman and footman had taken him home, and the affair had been kept quiet.
Remorse for what? I burned to ask a hundred questions, but, fearing to excite him, I shut my lips.
"You are in love with her?" he asked.
I nodded. It was a reply as abrupt as his demand. At that moment Deschamps laughed quietly behind me. I turned round quickly, but she lay still; though she had come to, the fire in her eyes was quenched, and I anticipated no immediate difficulty with her.
"I knew that night that you were in love with her," Sir Cyril continued. "Has she told you about—about me?"