“No, because you knew very well you would never get it if you did,” retorted the old man, grimly. “Tell the police, I say, that you, a penniless adventurer—”
“I’m no adventurer.”
“A penniless adventurer,” repeated old Mr Bayre, his voice going up into a squeak of rage, “have a notion that there’s a woman concealed in my house! See what they’ll say to you, you pitiful sneak and spy! See what honour and credit you will win for yourself by trying to foul your own nest, to bring disgrace upon the head of your own family!”
Again young Bayre was for the moment dumb; the passion which possessed the old man, the torrent of wounded pride which gushed forth in his speech and glowed in his sunken eyes, impressed his nephew with a sort of respect and remorse, and he began to wonder whether he had not taken fancies, both his own and those of others, for facts too readily.
But even as he began to hunt for suitable words in which to make a sort of apology, there passed suddenly over the withered old face below him an expression of cunning and malice combined which revived all his suspicions and made him stand to his guns.
“If I’ve played the spy, sir,” he said boldly, “you’ve brought my action upon yourself by your own outrageous behaviour. If a sane man will behave like an insane one, if he will surround himself with dubious people and behave in a suspicious way, he has no one to blame but himself if a stranger to the place comes to the conclusion that there’s something about his way of life that wants inquiring into.”
Again the old man appeared to be impressed by his words, and for a moment he remained silent, holding his lantern hanging by his side, and pulling the sides of his dressing-gown yet more closely over his throat.
Then he spoke again, not angrily, not loudly, but with a keen suspicion in his tones.
“Who told you about this woman?” he asked abruptly.
The young man hesitated. He did not wish to implicate Olwen; yet what could he say?