"Quite, thank you. Mr. Arbuthnot, there was another reason which brought me here. All through my life—which has been a most unhappy one—I have constantly been troubled with the reflection that though innocently (that you will not believe, but no matter), I was the cause of poor Herbert's—your father's trouble. If I could render his son even the slightest service it would be a great happiness to me. You are going to London, I hear. You know no one there, and you have no friends. Could you not make my house your home? You will not take the name of Devereux, I hear, but Mr. Arbuthnot would always be a welcome and an honoured guest."
"You have a conscience, then, Rupert Devereux?" I said, quietly.
He looked at me appealingly, flushing to the very roots of his hair.
"I scarcely understand," he began, hesitatingly.
"Let me explain, then," I said, looking at him steadily. "It seems to me that, having wrecked my father's life by a deliberate conspiracy, you are now seeking to expiate that most damnable sin by conferring favours upon his son. It will not do, Rupert Devereux!"
I should have pitied him had he been any other man, for he stood there looking distressed and disappointed. But, remembering who it was, I watched him with a bitter, sneering smile.
"Then there is nothing more to be said, I suppose," he remarked, with a sigh. "I had better go."
"You had better go," I echoed. "The only words I shall ever care to hear from your lips will be a confession of your villainous lie. I cannot believe that you will have the courage to die with that foul sin on your conscience."
He moved his position, and then for the first time I remarked how like he was in the outline of the face and the features to Maud. But the likeness softened me not one whit towards him, whilst it made me feel harder towards her.
He moved towards the door with a dejected gesture.