“Do you know Conrad Fitzgerald?” she asked.
“We have met,” he answered, somewhat grimly. “I do not claim the honour of his acquaintance.”
Monica glanced at him. She saw something in the stern lines of Randolph’s face that told a tale of its own. She was not afraid to state the conclusion she reached by looking at him.
“That means that you have quarrelled,” she said.
“I am not at liberty to explain what it means,” was the answer, spoken with a certain stern gravity, not lost upon Monica. She had never seen her companion look like this before. The strength and resolution of his face compelled a sort of involuntary respect, yet she revolted against hearing the friend and playmate of her childhood tacitly condemned by this stranger.
“I do not like innuendoes, Mr. Trevlyn,” she said. “If you have anything to say against a man I think it is better spoken out.”
“I have nothing at all to say upon the subject of Sir Conrad Fitzgerald,” he answered, quietly.
“Ungenerous! unmanly!” was Monica’s mental comment. “I cannot bear hearing a character hinted away. I loved Conrad once, and he loved me. I do not believe he has done anything for which he should be condemned.”
Randolph thought little of the few chance words respecting Sir Conrad Fitzgerald at the time when they were spoken; but he was destined to think a good deal about that individual before many days had passed.