“Left Belfayre? Well, where has she gone?”
“I do not know.”
She uttered a cry—a low, inarticulate cry.
“Trafford, something has happened! Where—where is Esmeralda?” she exclaimed; and there was a note of demand in her voice as if he were responsible for Esmeralda, as if he were answerable for her absence.
“I do not know,” he said again, huskily. “She left the house without my knowledge—without leaving a message for me”—he remembered the ring: it seemed to burn his flesh as it lay in his waistcoat pocket—“no letter, no word.”
Lady Wyndover rose, then sunk down again.
“My God, you have quarreled!”
“Yes, we have quarreled.”
“Then—then it was your fault!” she said; and her color glowed crimson through the powder on her face. “It must have been your fault. Oh, Trafford, and so soon!” she wailed.
“It was my fault,” he said. “In the beginning—yes; it was my fault—and yours.”