"No, it wasn't."
Their looks met.
"By chance, then, of course?" said Mallard, sourly.
Elgar spoke on an impulse, leaning forward.
"Look, I won't lie to you. Miriam told me they were going. I met her that morning, when I was slinking about, and I compelled her to give me her help—sorely against her will. Don't think ill of her for it, Mallard. I frightened her by my violent manner. I haven't seen her since; she can't know what the result has been. None of them at Pompeii suspected—only a moment of privacy; there's no need to say any more about it."
Mallard mused over this revelation. He felt inclined to scorn Elgar for making it. It affected him curiously, and at once took a place among his imaginings of Miriam.
"You shall promise me that you won't betray your knowledge of this," added Reuben. "At all events, not now. Promise me that. Your word is to be trusted, I know."
"It's very unlikely that I should think of touching on the matter to your sister. I shall make no promise."
"Have you seen Cecily herself?" Elgar asked, leaving the point aside in his eagerness to come to what concerned him more deeply.
"No."