“Have you told Miss Carr, Antony?”
“No,” I said, “I can’t be so mean; but she ought to know, for she believes him to be very true and honourable. I wish some one would tell her. Can’t you?”
“I? Tell Miss Carr? Antony, are you mad?” he cried, with a show of excitement that I could not understand. “No, I could not tell her. What would she think of me?”
“Yes, she is so high-minded and good,” I replied, “that she would think anybody a miserable talebearer who told her what a scoundrel Mr Lister is. I don’t think she would believe it, either.”
“No,” he said softly, “she could not believe such a thing of the man she loves.”
“Do you know,” I said, innocently enough, “I don’t think she does love Mr Lister very much.”
His eyes flashed as he looked at me; but he made no reply, and only sat gazing before him in a wistful, saddened way that I did not comprehend then as I went on chatting to him.
“No, I shall not tell her—I couldn’t,” I said. “It would be too mean, and yet it would be horrible for her to marry such a man as that. Have you seen him, since, Hallett?”
“Seen him?—Since? No, Antony, I have not been to the office since that night. I could never go there again.”
I looked at him anxiously, for his ways and looks were very strange; but I attributed everything to anxiety on Linny’s behalf, and we very soon changed the topic; and after hearing the last account about Linny, I rose to go, Hallett coming downstairs, and out into the starlit street, walking a few hundred yards with me towards my lodgings, before finally taking his leave, and going thoughtfully away.