“Not at all,” said Sylvester, with a nervous laugh. “But I’ve something to tell you. Where can we find a quiet place?”
“Up-stairs, come along. We had to have a place where poor Jackson could lie down. What’s the matter? All right at home?—What’s up, then?”
Sylvester followed him up-stairs into the hotel sitting-room, and stood in the window, looking vaguely out at the street.
“Lucy,” he said, getting quite cold with the effort, “I don’t know if you care to hear, but last night I met the Miss Haredales at a ball. Una spoke to me, and, from what she said, I now feel absolutely certain that your mother and I made a mistake. We saw Una Haredale with Major Fowler, and, for the rest, there was some trumpery mystery as to borrowing money for Lady Haredale. Amethyst was bound to secrecy, hence all that seemed suspicious.”
“Say that again,” said Lucian, hoarsely. “It was really the other girl you saw in the conservatory with Fowler?”
“Yes, no question of it.”
“Then, what a thundering fool you were to mistake them!” cried Lucian violently.
“I was,” said Sylvester, with dejection. “But I was not the only person, as you know. And I told you to trust her through thick and thin. I told you she was an angel of purity and innocence, no matter what I was fool enough to think I saw.”
“It was so, or it wasn’t,” said Lucian.
“You saw her, you questioned her,” said Sylvester. “She denied it. Una told the truth, then, and you did not believe either of them! I don’t excuse myself. I’d give my right hand not to have done her—and you—such a wrong.”