Then there struck upon their ears the sound of deliberate footsteps in the hall, and both became aware, at the same moment, that the footsteps were those of Sir Robert, and that there was an unwonted firmness in his tread.
The next moment, as Jack glanced apprehensively at the door, it opened, and Sir Robert came in.
He was as white as the dead, and his mild eyes were burning with a strange and sombre fire. Rhoda held her breath, for she knew that, in the short time that had elapsed since he left them, he had made some momentous discovery.
“Miss Pembury,” said he, in a voice which hurt her, so cold and cutting were its tones, “will you leave us for ten minutes?” And then he looked full in her face with an expression which told her more than words could have done. She knew that he was in possession, if not of the worst there was to be known, at any rate of enough to break a man’s heart.
She hesitated a moment; she would have liked to try to say some word to mitigate the horror of the shock he had received. But what could she say?
Closing her lips, and casting at him one look full of reverence and sympathy and pity, she went, tottering, out of the room, and left the two men together.
With a swift movement, altogether unlike his usual leisurely actions, Sir Robert flung upon a little table near him a folded piece of paper.
“We have some notes to take, both of us,” he said, in a steady voice which sounded quite unlike his own. “Here is a pencil for you, and here is mine. I’ll give you half this paper, and I’ll keep half. Lend me your penknife.”
He was bending down over the paper, and holding out his hand, not looking at Jack.
There was a moment’s hesitancy on the part of the young man, and then he produced his penknife from his pocket. It was a neat little gold-cased affair, very flat, and with two blades. He opened one of these, and handed the knife to Sir Robert.