“Of course you are, though perhaps not really to blame,—at least, not blamable in a high degree.”
“Not in any degree, Mrs. Trafford.”
“That must be a matter of opinion. At all events, your secret is safe, for the old man has totally forgotten all that occurred last night between you; and lest any clew to it should remain, I carried away the beginning of the letter he was writing. Here it is.”
“How thoughtfully done!” said he, as he took the paper and read aloud: “'Dear Triphook, come over and help me to a shot at a rascal'—not civil, certainly—'at a rascal; that because he calls himself—' It was well he got no further,” added he, with a faint smile.
“A good, bold hand it is too for such an old man. I declare, Mr. Maitland, I think your usual luck must have befriended you here. The fingers that held the pen so steadily might have been just as unshaken with the pistol.”
There was something so provocative in her tone that Maitland detected the speech at once, and became curious to trace it to a cause. At this sally, however, he only smiled in silence.
“I tried to persuade Mark to drive over and see Tony Butler,” continued she, “but he would n't consent: in fact, a general impulse to be disobliging would appear to have seized on the world just now. Don't you think so?”
“By the way, I forgot to tell you that your protégé Butler refuses to accept my offer. I got three lines from him, very dry and concise, saying 'no' to me. Of course I trust to your discretion never to disclose the negotiation in any way. I myself shall never speak of it; indeed, I am very little given to doing civil things, and even less accustomed to finding them ill-received, so that my secrecy is insured.”
“He ought not to have refused,” said she, thoughtfully.
“Perhaps not.”