“Then what does this mean?” still holding out the key.
“Sometimes—very seldom—I get faint or dizzy—with a headache—I hate a fuss, and I can set myself right with a little brandy.” There was something in the extreme reluctance with which the answer was given that justified suspicion.
“You ought to see a doctor, if that is so,” said Mrs Waynflete, with much reason; “and when I hear what he says, I’ll think of what you say.”
“As you please, Aunt Margaret,” said Guy. “If my word is not to be taken, I don’t care in the least to be cleared by another person’s.”
“You ought to care how your character stands in my eyes,” said Mrs Waynflete. “Take back your key. I shall judge for myself.”
She looked keenly at the young man standing in the sunlight. It was obvious that now, at any rate, he was fully master of himself, and Mrs Waynflete had lived too much with men, and knew their ways too well, not to perceive that there was nothing in his look to substantiate the charge against him.
Suddenly he looked round at her, in a curious, furtive way—a look which he withdrew at once as she met it, but which startled her. She had caught the glance of fear and suspicion.
“Time will show,” she said, as she left the room. “But I’ll have it all made clear to me, before I trust matters in your hands.”
When left alone, Guy hastily locked his door again, then flung himself down on the sofa.
“Oh, I am a fool, a fool!” he cried to himself. “God knows what will become of me!”