“That is a secret,” Mr. Bindane replied, a little scared, but at the same time calming himself with the assurance that he was acting for the best.
Lord Barthampton paced the floor, chewing his lips, his heavy brows knitted. “I see,” he said, at length. “And you think that it will help me if I hold this piece of information over her head.”
Mr. Bindane’s blank expression indicated that nothing of the kind had entered his head—in fact, that nothing of any kind had ever entered it. “You could have heard it from the natives,” he said. “They all know she was at El Hamrân while we went north. If I hadn’t let it slip out like this, no doubt you would have heard it from somebody else in time.”
“No doubt,” the other answered, and he drained his glass once more.
Benifett Bindane also rose from his chair. He was alarmed, and the qualms of conscience were upon him. “Of course it was just an escapade,” he murmured. “I don’t suppose there was anything wrong in it.”
“Well, I won’t use the information, unless I’ve got to,” said Lord Barthampton.
As they issued from the library, they heard the sound of an automobile driving up to the door. “That’s probably her,” Mr. Bindane remarked. “You’d better go and wait in the drawing-room, and I’ll make myself scarce.”
He patted the young man on the shoulders and hurried up the stairs to his room, while Charles Barthampton, nervously tidying himself, went into the drawing-room, where a footman was arranging the tea-table.
He had not long to wait. In a few minutes Muriel entered, and, seeing him, held out her hand.
“Hullo!” she said. “You here again?”