After his first glance at Sir Timothy, Francis' only thought was for Margaret. To his intense relief, she showed no signs whatever of terror, or of any relapse to her former state. She was entirely mistress of herself and the occasion. Sir Timothy's face was cold and terrible.
“I must apologise for this second intrusion, Mr. Ledsam,” he said cuttingly. “I think you will admit that the circumstances warrant it. Am I to understand that you lied to me this morning?”
“You are to understand nothing of the sort,” Francis answered. “I told you everything I knew at that time of your daughter's movements.”
“Indeed!” Sir Timothy murmured. “This little banquet, then, was unpremeditated?”
“Entirely,” Francis replied. “Here is the exact truth, so far as I am concerned. I met your daughter little more than an hour ago, coming out of a steamship office, where she had booked a passage to Buenos Ayres to get away from me. I was fortunate enough to induce her to change her mind. She has consented instead to remain in England as my wife. We were, as you see, celebrating the occasion.”
Sir Timothy laid his hat upon the sideboard and slowly removed his gloves.
“I trust,” he said, “that this pint bottle does not represent your cellar. I will drink a glass of wine with you, and with your permission make myself a pâté sandwich. I was just sitting down to luncheon when I received the information which brought me here.”
Francis produced another bottle of wine from the sideboard and filled his visitor's glass.
“You will drink, I hope, to our happiness,” he said.
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” Sir Timothy declared, helping himself with care to the pâté. “I have no superstitions about breaking bread with an enemy, or I should not have asked you to visit me at The Sanctuary, Mr. Ledsam. I object to your marriage with my daughter, and I shall take what steps I can to prevent it.”