“What sort of brooch is it?” asked the Viscount. “Would Rule be likely to recognize it?”
“Yes, of c-course he would! It’s part of a set, and it’s very old—fifteenth century, I think.”
“In that case,” decided his lordship, “we’ve got to get it back. I’d best go and see Lethbridge at once—though how I’ll keep my hands off him I don’t know. Burn it, a pretty fool I look, calling on him last night!”
Sir Roland was once more plunged in thought. “Won’t do,” he said at last. “If you go asking for a brooch, Lethbridge is bound to guess it’s my lady’s. I’ll go.”
Horatia looked at him with admiration. “Yes, that would be m-much better,” she said. “You are very helpful, I think.”
Sir Roland blushed, and prepared to set forth on his mission. “Beg you won’t give it a thought, ma’am. Affair of delicacy—tact required—a mere nothing!”
“Tact!” said the Viscount. “Tact for a hound like Lethbridge! My God, it makes me sick, so it does! You’d better take the phaeton; I’ll wait for you here.”
Sir Rolaind once more bowed over Horatia’s hand. “Shall hope to put the brooch in your hands within half an hour, ma’am,” he said, and departed.
Left alone with his sister, the Viscount began to pace about the room, growling something under his breath whenever he happened to think of Lethbridge’s iniquity. Presently he stopped short. “Horry, you’ll have to tell Rule. Damme, he’s a right to know!”
“I c-can’t tell him!” Horatia answered with suppressed passion. “Not again!”