“Not a bit, Guest; not a bit. I’m afraid you are right, but I must fight this out.”
The door was reached and Sir Mark uttered a sigh of relief, for there was no crowd—not a carriage to be seen; and, upon entering the house, it was to find that every friend and visitor had departed.
Sir Mark strode in upright and firm, and Guest stopped to say good-bye.
“No, no, my lad; don’t leave me yet,” said the old man. “Come up and face the ladies first.”
He led the way up into the drawing room, expecting to find Myra prostrate; but there was only one figure to greet him—his sister. The door, however, had hardly closed before Edie, who had been with her cousin, ran into the room flushed and eager.
“Where is Myra?”
“Lying down, uncle. We—auntie and I—persuaded her to go to her room.”
“Is she much broken down—much—”
“My dear Mark!” cried his sister sharply, “Myra is a sensible girl. Now, then, don’t keep us in suspense. Tell me: is it all true about that man?”
“Yes, Rebecca—I mean no,” cried Sir Mark furiously; “of course not, and I’m going to instruct counsel and—damme, it’s some enemy’s work. I’ll pour such a broadside into him! Why, confound it all!” he cried, as a sudden thought struck him, and he turned to Guest, “this must be some of your friend’s work.”