During the last three months, Arthur and Pat had left me very much to myself. They had behaved with the most perfect tact and kindness, Arthur, as I have said, having obtained for me the invitation to Cerne. Now, after we had traveled for a couple of hours and the luncheon baskets had been opened, old Pat lit a cigar and looked across at me. His big, brown face was grave, and he played with his mustache as if in some embarrassment.
He and Arthur glanced at each other, and I understood what was in their minds.
"Look here, you fellows," I said, "about the sacred Brotherhood—what is it in Spanish?"
"Santa Hermandad," said Arthur.
"Well, you've kept your oath splendidly. I cannot thank you enough. I have had the running all to myself—as far as you two are concerned, for twelve weeks."
"Yes, twelve weeks," Pat replied, with a sigh. "We've kept out of the way, old fellow, and I tell you it's been hard!"
Arthur nodded in corroboration, and somehow or other I felt myself a cur. Since boyhood we three had been like brothers, and it was a hard fate indeed that led us to center all our hopes upon something that could belong to one alone.
Despite what must have been their burning eagerness to know how things stood, both of them were far too delicate-minded and well-bred to ask a question. I knew it was up to me to satisfy them.
"Without going into details," I said, "I'll tell you just how it is, how I think it is, for I may be quite wrong, and presuming upon what doesn't exist."
I thought for a moment, and chose my words carefully. It was extremely difficult to say what I had to say.