Kitty glanced at him sharply and then at Celia, who at first looked puzzled and afterwards startled. Then the blood surged into Kitty’s cheeks. “Oh!” she said, as if she were breathless, “I was once afraid of something like this. You mean we’re the cause of it?”
The course he followed was hateful to Carroll, but the tangle could not be straightened without somebody’s feelings being hurt, and it was his comrade he was most concerned about.
“Yes,” he said quietly; “I believe you understand the situation.”
He saw the fire in Kitty’s eyes and that Celia’s face was also flushed, but he did not think their anger was directed against him. They knew the world they lived in, and, for that matter, he could share their indignation. He resented the fact that a little thing should bring such swift suspicion upon them. He was, however, not required to face any disconcerting climax.
“Well,” said Celia, “why did you tell us this?”
“I think you both owe Vane something, and you can do him a great favour now,” Carroll informed her.
Kitty looked up at him. “Don’t ask me too much, Mr. Carroll. I’m Irish, and I feel like killing somebody.”
“It’s natural,” said Carroll, with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve now and then felt much the same thing; it’s probably unavoidable in a world like this. However, I think you ought to call upon Miss Chisholm, after I’ve gone, though you had better not mention that I sent you. You can say you came for news of Vane—and add anything you consider necessary.”
The girls looked at one another, and at length, though it obviously cost her a struggle, Kitty said to Celia firmly: “We will have to go.” Then she faced round towards Carroll. “If Miss Chisholm won’t believe us she’ll be sorry we came.”
Carroll made her a slight inclination. “She’ll deserve it, if she’s not convinced. But it might be better if you didn’t approach her in the mood you’re in just now.”