“What have you heard?” asked Audrey quickly.
“Everything, I fancy. Of the infamous way in which that rascal Candover——”
“Sh—sh!” Audrey put her hand on her husband’s mouth. And she whispered in his ear: “If you know so much, you do know everything! Or everything that matters! But to find you taking my part—when I was afraid—when I was dreading what you’d say, what you’d think—oh, Gerard, Gerard, I can scarcely believe it!”
She was sobbing hysterically, feeling the relief of this great and unlooked-for comfort, this joy which she had not dared to hope for. Gerard, Gerard whose passionate anger she had been dreading, had only one thought, one idea, that he could take care of her again.
Presently she grew calmer, and nestling close to him on the sofa, whispered to him to tell her exactly what he knew, and how he had found her. He told her how his two cousins had arrived at Lord Clanfield’s that morning and what they had said; how they had given their account of the scene in which she accused her gambling guests, and how Lord Clanfield had recorded his first interview with her, and how he, Gerard, had listened quietly, and simply made up his mind to go to her without delay.
“I found out this address from Geoffrey,” he went on, “without telling him I meant to come to you. And then I set out at once, not saying a word to anybody, and I caught the first train I could and came straight here. And now you have to put me up, for I don’t mean to leave you again. You dear little goose, you can’t keep out of mischief without me!”
But though he spoke as lightly as possible, and tried in every way to soothe and calm her, she saw by the frown on his face, by his uneasy glances at the door, that all the while he was no more at ease than she was. And Audrey clasped his hand tightly in hers and whispered:—
“Did you ever have any doubts about him, about Mr. Candover, Gerard?”
“Yes,” answered he in the same tone. “Often. When I was alone—such awful loneliness, Audrey, I can’t talk about it yet!—I used to wonder whether this selfish man of pleasure would really be a safe, trustworthy friend. And I used to go very nearly mad with jealousy, wondering whether he would—would—Tell me, Audrey, did he make love to you?”
She nodded, shuddering.