"Why, Arbuthnot, what are you doing moping in here?" exclaimed Sir Francis, in a tone of astonishment. "Why don't you go and dance?"
I turned round with some excuse on my lips, but it died away when I saw who were his companions. Walking by his side was a tall dark man, with iron-grey hair, and pale, delicate face. On his arm was Maud, and, glancing from one to another, I knew that this was her father, my Uncle Rupert. Behind was my cousin Francis, with Lady Olive on his arm. It was a strange meeting.
"This is Mr. Arbuthnot, Rupert, whom I was telling you about just now," Sir Francis went on, without appearing to notice my start, "Arbuthnot, this is my son, Mr. Rupert Devereux."
I bowed slightly, and my Uncle Rupert did the same, withdrawing the hand which I had affected not to see. God forbid that my hand should touch his, even in the most casual fashion.
"Well, Arbuthnot, we——"
Sir Francis broke off in his pleasant speech, with his eyes riveted on the wall behind me. Slowly his face grew rigid with anger, and his thick eyebrows were contracted in a stern frown.
"Who has touched that picture?" he asked, in a cold, measured tone, which I had never heard from him before.
Rupert Devereux's eyes followed his father's shaking forefinger, and I saw a change pass over his face also. His dark eyes filled with a troubled, fearful light, and he shrank back a pace, as though to escape from the sight of the handsome boyish face which laughed down on him from the massive frame. To my eyes, inspired by knowledge, guilt was written in his pale face as plainly as nature could write, and a passionate anger which had lain sleeping within me for many weary months leapt out, burning and fierce, kindled by his presence. I forgot that I was Mr. Arbuthnot, the land agent; I forgot Maud's presence; I forgot everything save that I stood face to face with the man who had blighted my father's name and honour. That one maddening thought alone held me, and it was only by a great effort that I restrained myself from flying at his throat like a mad bull-dog.
I don't think that Sir Francis noticed my agitation. In fact, I am sure that he did not; for I was standing just outside the streak of light which the moon, shining softly in through the diamond-paned window, was casting upon the polished floor.
"Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, firmly, "might I trouble you—or Francis, you are nearest! Be so good as to turn that picture with its face to the wall."