“You rotten cad!” Stella flashed.
He smiled. “Do you want a truce, my sweet?”
She stood quite still, gripping the banisters, for a moment, and then, without a word, flung round on her heel, and ran downstairs. Still smiling, Randall followed her at his leisure.
Mrs Lupton had not waited for her husband to join her, but after having delivered herself of some sweeping strictures on her elder nephew's manners and morals, had left the house to attend a meeting of the local Nursing Association. Henry Lupton had just come away from the study when Randall reached the hall, and was hovering about in an uncertain fashion near the front door. He looked a little surprised when Stella, with the briefest of greetings, went past him into the library, but a moment later he saw Randall on the bend of the staircase, and started forward. “I want to speak to you!” he said in an urgent undertone.
“Do you?” said Randall, continuing his languid progress down the stairs.
“Yes, I do! I —” He cast a quick look behind him to be sure that Stella had shut the library door. “I want to know what you meant by the—the disgracefully rude things you said to your aunt!”
“The desire evinced by so many people of apparently normal intelligence of being informed of what they know very well already is a source of constant wonder to me,” remarked Randall. “However, I'm quite willing to oblige you if you're sure you want me to.”
Henry Lupton looked up at him, his own eyes strained and questioning. “What did your uncle tell you about me?” he demanded. “That's what I want to know! That Sunday before he died, when he asked you into his study. I might have known! I might have guessed he'd tell you!”
“You might, of course,” agreed Randall. “Did you suppose he wouldn't? He thought it would appeal to my sense of humour.”
“I've no doubt it did,” said Lupton bitterly.