Trafford was silent for a moment.
“I can not refuse to answer you,” he said. “It was a lady—Lady Ada Lancing.”
Varley’s face was quite impassive, and he swung one leg in a languid, meditative way.
“Thanks. May I ask you, Lord Druce, who the ‘some one’ was who you told about that telegram which caused you to leave Belfayre so suddenly?”
Norman colored and bit his lip, and glanced at Trafford uneasily. A cloud was gathering on Trafford’s face.
“Answer,” he said, curtly.
“It was—Lady Ada,” said Norman in a low voice.
“Thanks,” drawled Varley. “And she did not tell you, duke, or any one, apparently, of the cause of Lord Druce’s sudden departure?”
Trafford’s silence was a sufficient answer.
“One more question,” said Varley. “A rather delicate one, I’m afraid. You said that there was another lady whom you might have made your wife; will you think me unduly inquisitive if I ask you to tell me her name?”