“Then stay here,” said Carlyon, and left the room.
He found Francis Cheviot standing over the fire in the Crimson Saloon, one foot, in its gleaming Hessian boot, resting on the fender, one white hand gripping the edge of the mantelpiece. He still wore his fur-lined cloak, but he had cast his muffler. There was something rather fixed in the smile with which he met his host, but he said, with all his habitual languor, “My dear Carlyon, you must forgive me for intruding upon you at this hour! I feel sure you will—your sense of justice must oblige you to acknowledge its being quite your own fault. Do forgive me, but must we remain in this welter of crimson velvet? It is a color that irritates my nerves sadly. It is also extremely chilly in here and you know how susceptible I am to colds.”
“I know how susceptible you say you are to colds,” replied Carlyon, at his driest.
“Oh, it is perfectly true!” Francis assured him. “You must not think that I always prevaricate, for I only do so when I am obliged to.”
“Come into the library!” Carlyon said, leading the way there.
“Ah, this is better!” Francis approved, looking round with a critical eye. “Crimson and gold—I dare say very eligible for certain occasions, but this is not one of them.” He unfastened his cloak strings at the throat and flung the heavy garment off. The smile faded from his face. He came to the fire and said, “You know, my dear Carlyon, I am quite tired—really quite exhausted!—with this game of hide-and-seek in the dark which I have been playing with you. I could wish that you had not so much reserve. It is a fault in you. You must own it to be a fault! If you had but taken me into your confidence I should have been spared a great deal of trouble.”
“And Mrs. Cheviot a broken head?”
Francis shuddered. “Pray do not remind me of anything so distasteful to one of my exquisite sensibility! What a horrible necessity! I do trust she is now recovered? I myself am still sadly shaken by the affair. You know, Carlyon, I should find myself with an easier task if you would but cultivate that excellent virtue, frankness. Of course, I perceived at the outset that you cherished suspicions, but although I believe I am not generally accounted an obtuse person, I never could discover the extent of your knowledge, nor how you came by it.”
“I knew from John that a certain memorandum was missing,” Carlyon replied.
“Ah, so that was it! The ubiquitous John, who has no business, I am sure, to know anything about the matter. How shocking it is to reflect on the indiscretion that appears to prevail in certain quarters! By the way, I do trust you have that memorandum safe?”