But for his wife’s sake he would have made the whole matter public and would have insisted on having it thoroughly sifted; but a “still, small voice” pleaded for Clarice. It would be so hard for her to see and know that his thoughts were still all of the past.
That did not prevent him from making a private investigation of the matter. On the first day that he saw Conyers, the groom, he called him.
“I want you,” he said. “There are some questions I wish to ask you that, if you answer truthfully, will be of inestimable benefit to me; if you answer them falsely, I shall be still further deceived. Perhaps experience has embittered me; I have little faith left in man’s honesty. I will buy your truth, Conyers, if you swear to me, on your oath, to say nothing but what is perfectly, strictly correct. I will give you ten pounds, and, should you be able to discover that which I wish to know, I will hereafter give you fifty.”
Conyers was an honest man, and Sir Ronald’s words hurt him more than he cared to own.
“If you offered me twice fifty pounds, Sir Ronald, to tell a willful lie, I would not do it for you or for any one else. You can please yourself about believing whether I tell you the truth or not.”
His bluntness did not displease the master of Aldenmere, who looked at the groom’s face with a grim smile.
“If ever the world does to you what it has done to me,” he said, quietly, “you will either doubt your own sanity or the truth of your fellowmen. Come out here a few minutes; I want to talk to you.”
And the groom, laying down the work on which he was engaged, followed his master out of the stable.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE MYSTERY UNSOLVED.
“Sit down, Conyers,” said Sir Ronald, pointing to an old wooden bench. “I want you to carry your memory back to three years ago.”