“Of the man who calls himself Arthur Claverton.”
There is dead silence. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks loudly; the crack of a waggon-whip in the High Street, and the harsh, long-drawn shout of the driver, sound plainly though distant through the still afternoon, and in the little garden the bees hum drowsily.
“You must be mad?”
Every vestige of colour has fled from Lilian’s face, as she stands cold and statuesque, looking down upon her lover’s traducer. But she is perfectly calm, for she does not believe one word of this, though the bare suggestion has upset her. He shall speak more plainly, though.
“Of course you don’t believe me,” he says. “I wasn’t fool enough to expect you would—without proof. To begin, then. How much has this Claverton told you of his antecedents?”
“As much as I wish to know. But this is not proof.”
“Wait a bit. All in good time. He came to South Africa four years ago; quite so. Now has he by chance ever told you where he spent the two previous years—what he was doing?”
In spite of herself Lilian feels her heart sink somewhat. It happens that concerning that very portion of his career her lover has been conspicuously reticent. But she says carelessly:
“I dare say he has.”
“Indeed! You surprise me. Then it will be no news to you to learn that he was in Central Africa?”