Stewart’s cheeks flushed quickly. “I don’t quite understand——”
Anthony extended a protesting hand. “I think you will. Who is the lady you wish to marry?”
Stewart half rose in his chair. Then he sank back, as though resigned to anything that might come next.
“I think I am able, Mr. Stewart,” continued Anthony, “to put my finger on the subject of the interview that you had with your father, not long before he was killed—it concerned a lady—the lady you are desirous of marrying—who is she?”
Stewart’s emotion got the better of him for a brief period. Then he made a big effort and succeeded in pulling himself together. “That’s been one of the hardest things I’ve had to bear, Mr. Bathurst,” he stated. “The thought that my last words with my father had been bitter ones. Ever since that awful morning when I realized that I should never speak to him again—that I should never again hear his voice speaking to me, that thought haunted me—every moment almost. And another thought has accompanied it. This! If by any miracle I could bring my father back to life and have that interview over again, I don’t see that I could conscientiously end it or even carry it on, in any other way.” He looked pathetically at Anthony.
“You have my very profound sympathy, Mr. Stewart. But you mustn’t upset yourself needlessly. Tell me all about it.” He put his arm on the young man’s shoulder. Stewart drew his hand across his forehead and tossed his hair back from his brow.
“Well, of course, Mr. Bathurst, you have been able to see, from what Ferguson has told us to-day—exactly how the land lay. My father was fond of me as a man is of his only son, but he was also passionately attached to Marjorie—Miss Lennox! I think, perhaps, he was the type of man that prefers girls to boys, and although she was his ward—he always regarded her as a daughter. More than as a daughter.” He brought his fist down in the palm of his other hand. “More—because he cherished the idea that one day she and I would marry. But I don’t think either of us care for the other in that way. We’ve always been tremendous pals and all that—but there it ended! Somehow we didn’t want to marry. I’m speaking more for myself than I possibly can for Marjorie—naturally—but I don’t think she has ever wanted to marry me any more than I have ever wanted to marry her. How the idea obsessed my father’s mind you can judge after hearing what Ferguson told us with regard to his will. My father couldn’t bear to be thwarted in anything.” He stopped, and once again the color flaunted its red banner in his cheeks. “Soon after we came to Assynton, I met a lady to whom I was instantly attracted, and now I am very happy to say there is a complete understanding between us. She is a Miss Rosemary Armitage, of ‘The Towers’—seven miles from here. I had been playing tennis there the night Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined with my father. I don’t know if anything was said during the evening, but when the Colonel went, my father sent for me and in his own words—‘had it out with me.’ He had heard of my admiration for Miss Armitage and it had upset him.”
“What time was that?” interjected Anthony.
“At a quarter-past ten—I looked at my wrist-watch as I entered the library! I wondered what it was my father wanted to see me about so late—he sent for me—you see.”
Anthony thought for a second. “That leaves a quarter of an hour between the Colonel’s departure and his sending for you. Whom did he send for you?”