Without answering Sir Algernon, St. Quentin seized pen and paper, and began again—
“Dear Fane—
“Cut the timber from....”
The knock at the door was unheard by both, and neither noticed Sydney’s entrance.
She had changed her wet clothes, but her hair hung straight and damp about her face. The face itself was bright with exercise, and looked a strange contrast to the faces of the two men in the lamp-lit library.
“You sent for me?” she said, going straight up to her cousin.
“Yes, dear, but it doesn’t matter now,” he said. “Go back to Miss Osric.”
She looked at him. “You are very tired, St. Quentin! Let me write that letter for you.”
She laid her hand upon the desk. “You ought not to be bothered with letters when you are so tired, and,” with a reproachful glance at Sir Algernon, “I am sure that you ought not to talk business any longer.”
“It’s not the talking which has tired him, Miss Lisle,” said Sir Algernon; “it’s the thought of something rather disagreeable he must do, unless you care to save him from it!”