Sir Algernon came quickly towards him. “You made me do it!” he hissed. “You made me burn your note to Duncombe. Your letter to me and to Duncombe were in each other’s envelopes, and you made me burn the wrong one!” His voice, loud, harsh, and grating in his fury, rang out into the hall, despite the heavy curtain over the door of the library. “You made me do it, and I’ll——”
“Don’t touch me,” said St. Quentin, vaguely aware as he spoke that all might well be over before Dickson had the time to answer his ring. “It wouldn’t take a great deal to finish me, you see, and Lorry would require an explanation.”
“He does!” the old doctor cried, hurrying into the room with Sydney at his heels. “May I ask what you’re doing, Sir Algernon? Get a little farther off from my patient, if you please.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said St. Quentin, “Bridge and I were only discussing my new scheme for rebuilding the cottages. But, interesting as I find his views, I am afraid we shall have to close the discussion, as he has a train to catch. Good-bye, Bridge.”
Sir Algernon turned fiercely upon him.
“You think you’ve won the game and can keep your secret in your hands. You can’t! Miss Morrell read the letter. I showed it to her, and she read it and asked what it meant. I told her and she believed in me—not you! not you!”
“She did not!” said Sydney, “for she told me all about it. She believed in it just at first, because she did not know how wicked you could be, Sir Algernon. But by-and-by, when she grew older, she knew that St. Quentin could not possibly have done what you accused him of. She didn’t understand about the letter to the jockey; but she just knew that St. Quentin could not possibly be mean or dishonourable. And she knows you are both!”
“Hear, hear!” said Dr. Lorry, in a very audible aside, and Sir Algernon, muttering some indistinguishable remark about his train, went out.
“Lord St. Quentin, your heir is a trump!” the old doctor said enthusiastically, and St. Quentin, as he bade good-night to Sydney, agreed.