This gave Billy a pang. So Ronnie really counted after all, and would walk in—over the broken hearts of Billy and another—in rôle of manly comforter. It was hard; but, loyally, Billy made answer.
“Yes; Ronnie says it is only right; and I think so too. I’ve come to do it, if you will let me.”
Lady Ingleby sat, with clasped hands, considering. After all, what did it matter? What did anything matter, compared to the trouble with Jim?
She looked up at the portrait; but Michael’s pictured face, intent on little Peter, gave her no sign.
If these boys wished to tell her, and get it off their minds, why should she not know? It would put a stop, once for all, to Ronnie’s tragic love-making.
“Yes, Billy,” she said. “You may as well tell me.”
The room was very still. A rosebud tapped twice against the window-pane. It might have been a warning finger. Neither noticed it. It tapped a third time.
Billy cleared his throat, and swallowed, quickly.
Then he spoke.
“The man who made the blunder,” he said, “and fired the mine too soon; the man who killed Lord Ingleby, by mistake, was the chap you call ‘Jim Airth.’”