“It’s not true,” said Norman, almost savagely. “Your man knew, and I told”—he hesitated a moment, as if confused and bewildered by a sudden thought that had struck him—“told some one else. I had no idea that there was anything wrong, that Esmeralda had gone, until I saw Lady Wyndover. Then I went straight to town in search of you. I didn’t want to seek Esmeralda; I knew where she’d gone; I knew she’d come here. I played hide-and-seek with you for nearly a day. I booked a berth for you, got everything ready, and when you didn’t turn up, I went on board the vessel myself, and came after Esmeralda to explain—to one of you, at any rate, what a hideous mistake and bungle the whole miserable business was. Choose between you and me!” He panted for breath, and laughed outright. “Why, man, she chose long ago! There’s no other man in the world but you, and the whole of the masculine gender might go hang for her, so long as she had you!”
He dropped into a chair, and mopped his red and streaming face; it was hot work.
Trafford rose trembling, looking from one to the other like a man waking from a ghastly nightmare, and Varley watched him with pitying and sympathizing eyes; for as he realized all that Trafford had suffered, he could find it possible to forgive him.
“Norman!” said Trafford, hoarsely. “What am I to say? I can only ask you to forgive me. It is I who have wronged you! I have been a fool, a mad fool—worse than a fool! I am not fit to stand in the presence of the friend I have wronged!”
He extended his hand with profound humility.
Norman sprung to his feet, with tears in his eyes, grasped the hand and wrung it, and kept on wringing it in a manner that would have been ludicrous but for the tragedy of the situation.
“Dear old Trafford!” he murmured, brokenly. “But she’s better! I know that from what you’ve said! And it will all come right!”
Trafford’s lips quivered.
“God grant it!” he said. “She—she may not forgive me. Her love may have died.”
Norman laughed broken and incredulously.