Max maintained an uncompromising silence.
Noel waited a moment, then squarely tackled him. "Max, why did you lie to her?"
"And if I didn't?" said Max very deliberately.
Noel made instant and winning reply. "Oh, you needn't ask me to believe that tomfool tale, old chap! I know you too well for that."
"All right," said Max. "Then you know quite as much as is good for you.
If you want to be ready in time to meet your fiancée, you had better let
Kersley's man lend you a hand with your dressing. I will send him to
you."
He was at the door with the words. Noel heard him open it and go out. He sat where Max had left him with a puzzled frown between his brows.
"I wish I knew the fellow's game," he murmured. "I wish—"
He broke off. What was the good of wishing? Moreover, to be quite honest, perhaps he was more or less satisfied with things as they were. Max had probably got over his disappointment to a certain extent by this time. It was quite obvious that he had no desire or intention to reopen the matter. No, on the whole perhaps it was indiscreet to probe too deeply. Every man had a right to his own secrets. And meantime, Olga was his—was his, and there remained this glorious possibility that his sight might be restored also.
He put up his hands suddenly, covering those useless, tortured eyes. A very curious tremor went through him. His heart began to throb thick and hard. It seemed too good to be true. Since that first awful day he had not fought against Fate, refraining himself even in his worst hours of darkness and suffering, and now it seemed that Fate was going to be kind after all. Like Job, he was to receive all—and more also—that he had lost.
He broke into a quivering laugh. "Good old Job!" he said. "We're not all such lucky beggars as that."