"And then, for their own reputation's sake, they will quietly drop the whole thing, in case they make themselves still more ridiculous."
His coolness amazed her more each time he had occasion to display it; he had a way of making the most wildly improbable events seem probable, of ignoring the existence of peril until it was upon him, and then of moving placidly aside and letting it pass him by as if it were all of no account. And this marvellous confidence was, to a certain extent, infectious. Alone, Lavender might fret herself ill and quake before the visions her fancy painted in the darkness, but in his company the nightmare vanished and she reproached herself for her hysterical fears. If only Melville's abilities and personal magnetism had been directed towards good ends he might have achieved greatness, but his cleverness and charm, utilised as they were, constituted him a living danger to society.
"Do you really think that will happen?" she said; "really believe it is even possible?"
"I really do," he answered. "Look here, Lavender. I've thought about it all—anticipated every move; there is only one thing one cannot foresee, and that is the crass stupidity of people one doesn't know—in this case some Fairbridge constable. As it happens, even that is working in my favour. Ralph was at the boathouse some time before he saw—Sir Geoffrey, and he has inherited everything. Therefore, according to this fat-headed policeman, Ralph did the murder. But what's good enough to arrest a man for, is not enough to convict him, and there not only isn't any evidence against Ralph, but there can't be. He will be discharged with a halo of injured innocence round his brow; and, as I said just now, everybody will be only too glad to drop the whole thing."
For the moment he actually satisfied her and lifted a load of anxiety from her heart. Then he broached an idea which he had been pondering for some days.
"Why don't you go out of town for a bit, or, better still, out of England? I suppose, in any case, you would be going soon."
"You want me out of the way?" she said interrogatively.
"I think it very desirable that you should be, certainly," he answered. "You're in a horribly nervous condition, which is perfectly natural, and goodness only knows what might happen if any fresh trouble came upon you just now in connection with your marriage to Mr. Sinclair. There would be all sorts of litigation, and I can't imagine that you contemplate giving up what you've got from him for the sake of having less from somebody else, leaving alone all considerations of the scandal."
It was neatly put, but she was sceptical about his regard for her interests. She flushed as he told her of the annuity Sir Geoffrey had left her, and of the conditions under which it was to be obtained, and he regretted having laid any emphasis upon the humiliating nature of those restrictions, for she keenly resented having been so unnecessarily subjected to this implied affront. Badly as she might have treated her husband, she had at least been proud enough to refrain from asking him for help, and that pride would have endured, however poor she might have become subsequent to her desertion of him. Melville's duplicity angered her, and she refused to acquiesce in his wish that she should run away, and turned a deaf ear to his further arguments in favour of that course.
"No," she said doggedly, "I won't go," and for the time he gave up trying to persuade her.