“Chum,” said Hilton, in a low whisper, and his voice sounded very strange in the gathering darkness, “I beg your pardon for what I said. I was bitter and angry.”
“All right, old fellow. It’s all gone.”
“Then listen. Can we get away to-night?”
“No. Why?”
“I feel as if I couldn’t stop here after what you said. I tell you I hate Helen Perowne now devoutly, but I’d go through fire and water to save her from that black scoundrel. Why did you think such a thing?”
“I don’t know; it came into my head. It appeared possible. We were spirited off, and it seemed so easy for Murad to carry her off in the same way. I suppose what the Princess said set me thinking.”
“If she is in his power,” began Hilton—“Oh, it is not possible! She led him on so, too. That foolish love of admiration!”
“That’s the right term, Bertie. She never cared for you any more than she did for me.”
“No,” said Hilton, bitterly, “I believe you are right; but I was such a vain, conceited idiot, I thought myself far above you all. Chumbley, do you believe what you said?”
Chumbley looked across the little space between them towards his friend; but it was quite dark now, and the voices seemed to come out of a black void.