“It is a time, Mr Perowne, when I feel bound to speak out, and without reservation. I grieve to say that Miss Perowne’s whole conduct has been such as to lead any thoughtful woman to believe that what I say is true.”
There was a murmur of assent here from the ladies present.
“You are in the minority, Miss Stuart,” said the Resident, gravely, as he turned to Grey, who, pale of face and red-eyed, was now and again casting reproachful glances at the severe-looking little lady, “and I thank you for what you have said.”
“I’m beginning to think myself that the wife is right,” said Dr Bolter. “She tells me she has been making inquiries amongst the Malay women—many of whom we know from their coming up to our house for help. They are very friendly towards us; and if there was anything in the Murad theory they would have known, and let it out. You are wrong, my dear. I’m afraid you are wrong.”
Grey raised her eyes to the doctor’s with quite a fierce look, and she turned red and pale by turns ere she answered, loyally:
“No, I am not wrong. Helen would not have been guilty of such an act. I know her too well. Neither,” she added, in a lower voice, “would Captain Hilton.”
“Brave little partisan,” said the Resident, sadly. “You and I will fight all Helen Perowne’s detractors. As you say,” he cried, raising his voice, and a warm flush showing through his embrowned skin, “it is impossible!”
Mr Perowne had been called from the room before the discussion assumed quite so personal a nature, and now he returned, gazing piteously from one to the other as he was asked whether there was any news.
“This suspense is terrible!” he moaned. “Harley, Bolter, pray do something! My poor child!—my poor child!”
There was a sympathetic silence in the now crowded room, as the occupants waited for one of the gentlemen to speak, Dr Bolter looking at his wife, as if to ask, “What shall I say?” and receiving for response a shake of the head.