Violet Wayne appeared thoughtful, for she had heard the other men grumbling at the scarcity of pheasants that afternoon; but she was a wise young woman, and did not tell Tony so.
“What has become of Mr. Appleby?” she asked.
“Gone away,” said Tony. “He left just after we came in.”
Again Violet Wayne glanced at him with grave quietness, but Tony was looking at his plate just then.
“His train does not leave for an hour yet,” she said.
Violet Wayne did not often speak without reflection, but she blundered then. Tony Palliser was not the man to boldly choose his path, but rather addicted to follow the one events seemed to force him into, and she who might have proved his good angel helped to start him down hill.
“He was going to Liverpool,” he said, and a moment later regretted it.
“To Liverpool! What has taken him there? He told me he was going back to his office.”
Tony looked round in search of inspiration, and did not find it. It was also a somewhat fateful moment for him, because he had as yet been guilty of nothing more than a passing indiscretion, which the woman would have forgiven him. Had he decided to take her into his confidence she would have believed his story, and she had sufficient strength of character to carry him with clean hands through the difficulty. As it happened, however, he was not looking at her, and saw only the glitter of light on glass and silver and the faces of his friends. Tony was as fond of pleasant company as he was of luxury, and what he saw reminded him that he had a good deal to lose. That put him on his guard, and he took the first fateful step in haste, without realizing where it would lead him.
“I don’t quite know,” he said; “Bernard isn’t communicative. He asked me for the dog-cart, and I didn’t worry him.”