The marquis shrugged his shoulders.
“I had better tell you what I know; we are getting rather confused. It appears that Miss Marlowe’s guardian died suddenly; probably you know this?”
Lord Cecil uttered an exclamation of dismay and pity.
“No! I did not know it! I have not heard from her—from any one! My poor Doris! When—when did he die?”
“Some time ago—soon after you left, I believe; and here in Barton. I know nothing of the particulars.”
“And she did not write! Why not, why not?”
“For reasons best known to herself. My dear Cecil, I am reluctant to shake your faith in this young lady, but I am afraid I must.”
“What!” demanded Lord Cecil, scarcely understanding. “My faith in Doris! Go on, sir!”
“It would seem——Pray take a chair; your constant moving is harassing.”
Lord Cecil sank into a chair, impatiently.