“Excuse me, Lord Avon; but I know you, and I see no reason why I should accept your statement.”
It was a brutal speech, and brutally delivered. Lord Avon staggered forward, and it was only his son on one side and his wife on the other who kept his quivering hands from the throat of his insulter. Sir Lothian recoiled from the pale fierce face with the black brows, but he still glared angrily about the room.
“A very pretty conspiracy this,” he cried, “with a criminal, an actress, and a prize-fighter all playing their parts. Sir Charles Tregellis, you shall hear from me again! And you also, my lord!” He turned upon his heel and strode from the room.
“He has gone to denounce me,” said Lord Avon, a spasm of wounded pride distorting his features.
“Shall I bring him back?” cried Boy Jim.
“No, no, let him go. It is as well, for I have already made up my mind that my duty to you, my son, outweighs that which I owe, and have at such bitter cost fulfilled, to my brother and my family.”
“You did me an injustice, Ned,” said my uncle, “if you thought that I had forgotten you, or that I had judged you unkindly. If ever I have thought that you had done this deed—and how could I doubt the evidence of my own eyes—I have always believed that it was at a time when your mind was unhinged, and when you knew no more of what you were about than the man who is walking in his sleep.”
“What do you mean when you talk about the evidence of your own eyes?” asked Lord Avon, looking hard at my uncle.
“I saw you, Ned, upon that accursed night.”
“Saw me? Where?”