"And is Mr. Vane in Newgate now?"
"No. He was brought to trial after innumerable delays. The evidence against him amounted to nothing. The witnesses—one of them a lying wretch who ought to be whipped at the cart's tail from Newgate to Charing Cross, by name Jeremy Rofflash—were scoundrelly common informers of the lowest type. Lancelot's father, a Whig clergyman and strong supporter of King George, appeared in court to speak on behalf of his son's character, and the lad was acquitted. But I fear he's broken in health, and I doubt if he'll be the man he was before."
Again Lavinia was silent. It was all very sad, and she felt full of pity for Lance. But at the back of her thoughts lurked the remembrance of Sally Salisbury's mocking face, of her vulgar spite. She was not altogether convinced that Lancelot Vane was insensible to Sally's undoubted attractions. She sighed.
"To-morrow, then," went on Gay, "I shall bring you the songs I want you to learn."
They had now come in sight of Betty's cottage. Lavinia pointed it out to her companion, and Gay, bidding her adieu, turned in the direction of Hampstead village.
Pensively Lavinia walked towards the cottage. She had told herself over and over again that she cared no more for Lancelot—that she had blotted him out of her life—that she wanted neither to see him nor to hear of him. Yet now that he had gone through so terrible an ordeal she had a yearning to offer him her sympathy, if not to forgive him.
"No, I can't do that," she murmured. "Accident or not, that vile woman was with him—his arms were round her. I'll swear my eyes didn't play me false."
Suddenly she heard a halting step behind her. The heath at night was a favourite haunt of questionable characters from dissolute men of fashion to footpads, and a lone woman had need to dread one as much as the other. Betty's cottage was but a few yards away, and Lavinia quickened her pace.
"Miss Fenton—one moment, I entreat," came in a panting whisper. "I—I am Lancelot Vane. I must speak with you."