“Have you?” Eglington flicked the ash from his cigar, speaking coolly.
Soolsby looked at him with his honest blue eyes aflame, and answered deliberately: “I was not for taking your place, my lord. ‘Twas my duty to tell you, but the rest was between you and the Earl of Eglington.”
“That was thoughtful of you, Soolsby. And Miss Claridge?”
“I told you that night, my lord, that only her father and myself knew; and what was then is now.”
A look of relief stole across Eglington’s face. “Of course—of course. These things need a lot of thought, Soolsby. One must act with care—no haste, no flurry, no mistakes.”
“I would not wait too long, my lord, or be too careful.” There was menace in the tone.
“But if you go at things blind, you’re likely to hurt where you don’t mean to hurt. When you’re mowing in a field by a school-house, you must look out for the children asleep in the grass. Sometimes the longest way round is the shortest way home.”
“Do you mean to do it or not, my lord? I’ve left it to you as a gentleman.”
“It’s going to upset more than you think, Soolsby. Suppose he, out there in Egypt”—he pointed again to the map—“doesn’t thank me for the information. Suppose he says no, and—”
“Right’s right. Give him the chance, my lord. How can you know, unless you tell him the truth?”