Mrs. Pendleton cast a moist, grateful glance at the speaker, but Austin Turold turned on him a look of cold hostility.
Robert Turold sat brooding for a few moments in silence. He had asked advice, but his own mind was made up. The humane views of his sister and Dr. Ravenshaw were powerless to affect his decision. The monstrous growth of his single purpose had long since strangled such transient plants as human affection and feeling in his heart and mind.
“The facts must be made public,” he said inexorably. “The honour of a noble family is in my hands, and I must do my duty. It would be an insult to my Sovereign and my peers, and a grievous wrong to our family, if I concealed any portion of the truth. I shall make adequate provision for Sisily. You will not refuse to take charge of her, Constance, because of this disclosure?”
“You ought to know me better than that, Robert. She’ll need somebody to take care of her, poor child! But who is to tell her the truth? For I suppose she must be told?”
“I want you to tell her,” said Robert Turold. “Choose your time. There is no immediate hurry, but she must be in no false hopes about the future. She had better be told before the Investigations Committee meets.”
“Bother the Investigations Committee!” exclaimed Mrs. Pendleton. “Really, Robert—”
Mrs. Pendleton broke off abruptly, in something like dismay. She had a fleeting impression of a pair of eyes encountering her own through a crack in the doorway, and as swiftly withdrawn. She walked quickly to the door and flung it open. There was nobody outside, and the passage was empty.
“We have been talking family secrets with the door open,” she said, returning to her seat. “I thought I saw one of the servants eavesdropping.”
“My servants would not listen at doors,” said Robert Turold coldly. “You must have imagined it.”
Mrs. Pendleton made no rejoinder. She had a strong belief that someone had been watching and listening, but she could not be sure.