Saltash paced jerkily on, his hands behind him. "I want you to have her because you're straight, and she'll come to no harm with you. You never even parley with the devil, do you, Jake? Remember that time—it's ten years ago, more—when a man tried to tempt you to tamper with one of your horses and you horsewhipped him for his baseness."
"I prefer not to remember it, my lord," said Jake.
Saltash stopped suddenly by his chair and gripped his shoulder with a wiry hand. "I've liked you ever since," he said. "Look here, Jake! I'm not tempting you to do anything wrong now. I'm asking you to do something that doesn't appeal to you; but if you do it, it'll be one of the most decent actions of your life. That child is quite alone just now—except for me. Will you take her—like a good chap—till something else safe turns up?"
Jake sat slowly forward. "I'll have to talk it over with Maud," he said.
Saltash's grip shifted impatiently. "You know very well what Maud will say. Don't be an ass about it! Say No—if you mean to say No—at once!"
There came the quiet tread of approaching feet on the gravelled terrace and the sound of low voices talking together. Jake lifted his head. His face was grim. He looked Saltash straight in the eyes.
"You've told me the plain truth about her. You swear it?"
Saltash's swarthy countenance was in shadow, but those strange eyes of his gleamed oddly, with the sort of fitful shining that comes from a coat of mail in an uncertain light. They did not flinch from Jake's straight regard, neither did they wholly meet it.
"Is my oath really more valuable than my word, Jake?" he said, with a wry twist of the lips. "Most people don't find it so."
Jake stood up, a figure square and forceful. For a moment he faced
Saltash with a level scrutiny that—possibly—pierced the coat of mail.
Then abruptly he smiled. "I will take your word, my lord," he said.