I knew what he meant. He was thinking of the Major’s clumsy bringing-up, yesterday, of the name of Sydney Vandeleur.
So I lifted my eyes, which had been idly studying the grey pattern of shadow flung by a trellised rose-arch upon my creamy skirt, and I looked the Governor firmly in the face as I said quietly:
“I imagine so.”
Then he said, “Oh.”
And then there was another pause.
Surely Mr. Waters could not break it by anything else, now, than by coming to the point—saying whatever it was he meant to say about his behaviour at the door of the den? But nothing of the kind.
“You quite understand, then, that I am sorry—for bringing you into all this?” he began again. “Right. Now, I suppose I ought to offer to release you from the arrangement.”
“Yes?” I looked up again quickly, hopefully.
“Only, you see, I can’t,” my employer concluded, slowly. “I can’t do that. The—er—my—the reason which forced me into it is—still there.”