“I am ill, Mr. Sycamore. I am in a wretched state. Properly I should be in bed now. I have been unable to travel abroad to rest. I have been totally unable to attend to affairs. And now comes this last blow. Terrible! A judgment.”
“I was not aware, Lady Charlotte, that you knew,” Mr. Sycamore began.
“Of course I know. Telegrams, letters. No attempt to break it to me. The brutal truth. I cannot tell you how I deplore my supineness that has led to this catastrophe.”
“Hardly supine,” Mr. Sycamore ventured.
“Yes, supine. If I had taken up my responsibilities years ago—when these poor children were christened, none of this might have happened. Nothing.”
Mr. Sycamore perceived that he was in the presence of something more than mere fuss about Peter’s running away. A wary gleam came into his spectacles.
“Perhaps, Lady Charlotte, if I could see your telegram,” he said.
“Give it him, Unwin,” she said.
“Stole a boat—carried over a weir,” he read. “But this is terrible! I had no idea.”
“Give him the letter. No—not that one. The other.”