“It is not like that with me,” he declared. “My plans were made down in hell.”
“God bless my soul!” the lawyer murmured. “But you are not serious, Sir Wingrave?”
“Ay! I’m serious enough,” Wingrave answered. “Do you suppose a man, with the best pages of his life rooted out, is likely to look out upon his fellows from the point of view of a philanthropist? Do you suppose that the man, into whose soul the irons of bitterness have gnawed and eaten their way, is likely to come out with a smirk and look around him for the opportunity of doing good? Rubbish! My aim is to encourage suffering wherever I see it, to create it where I can, to make sinners and thieves of honest people.”
“God bless my soul!” the lawyer gasped again. “I don’t think you can be—as bad as you think you are. What about Juliet Lundy?”
Fire flashed in Wingrave’s eyes. Again, at the mention of her name, he seemed almost to lose control of himself. It was several moments before he spoke. He looked Mr. Pengarth in the face, and his tone was unusually deliberate.
“Gifts,” he said, “are not always given in friendship. Life may easily become a more complicated affair for that child with the Tredowen estates hanging round her neck. And anyhow, I disappoint my next of kin.”
Morrison, smooth-footed and silent, appeared upon the lawn. He addressed Wingrave.
“A lady has arrived in a cab from Truro, sir,” he announced. “She wishes to see you as soon as convenient.”
A sudden light flashed across Wingrave’s face, dying out again almost immediately.
“Who is she, Morrison?” he asked.