“He had no right to say that!” he cried angrily.
“No. I don’t say he had. But think of the provocation! She called them a gang of swindlers!”
“And didn’t you say some of you had been swindled?”
“Yes. But she was talking to the victims.”
Gerard bent his head again, and said nothing. He was taking the whole story with uncanny calmness, almost, thought the others, as if his brain had lost some of its reasoning power. Not a sign did he give of the burst of tempestuous indignation they had all expected. He merely let his head hang forward again, and listened, with clasped hands, while Geoffrey went on:—
“Of course, there’s no end of a row and a scandal, and some take her part and think there’s someone behind her, who does the work and makes her the figure-head. Sir Barnaby’s one of those. You know what an eye he has for a pretty face.”
Gerard moved uneasily, but said nothing.
“Well, he and one or two more are round again at her place to-day, and everybody’s awaiting interesting developments. Nobody thinks she will come to any harm. In fact, the general opinion is that she’s confoundedly artful, and that she got up this scene to attract attention, and—to nail Sir Barnaby.”
Not even this insinuation had the effect of rousing Gerard to any open expression of indignation. He just sat as before, huddled up in his chair, staring at the fire, while the others offered different, more or less guarded, comments on the unpleasant news.
At last Edgar and Geoffrey went out and then Gerard seemed to wake up as if out of a dream, and to realise that he was alone with his uncle, who evidently wanted to get rid of him, for he fidgeted, and looked at his watch, not liking to leave the presumably disconsolate young husband by himself, yet anxious to take up the occupation upon which he was engaged.