Travers Nugent, if he felt surprise, did not show it; nor was there any annoyance in his gently-murmured question: "You have counted the cost, I presume? You understand what defection will entail?"
"Oh, yes; that beast Levison has taken care of that," replied Chermside. "I am to meet him to-morrow night on the marsh at ten o'clock to give him my final answer. But that was only to secure a day's respite, and—and take leave of my friends. My mind is quite made up. I shall withdraw, and let him do his worst."
Again there was no trace of disappointment in Nugent's reception of this definite retirement. For an instant his right hand caressed his long, fair moustache, while his cold blue eyes rested meditatively on the slightly-flushed face of the recalcitrant, but the only note in his voice was one of unselfish concern as he said——
"I am afraid you will find it very unpleasant, but I suppose that if you have scruples you are right to act on them."
There was no time for more, for Montague Maynard, having seen to the bestowal of the car and the chauffeur, came bustling back and conducted his two guests to the dining-room, where the ladies joined them at the luncheon table. Chermside managed to secure a seat next Violet, but in such a small party there was no chance for intimate conversation. On the whole, he was glad of it, for after to-day—to-morrow at latest—it was improbable that he would ever see again the girl upon whom he would have inflicted such deadly wrong. Even now, in the midst of lightest chatter, she stabbed him over and over again with the frank confidence in her trusting eyes. He felt with a shudder that if he had pursued his fell mission to the end it would have been crowned with a horrible success.
Already his punishment had begun; he loved the woman whom he would have destroyed, and in a few hours he must say good-bye to her for ever. Yes, he was thankful that Aunt Sarah's quips and cranks, and Travers Nugent's scintillating small-talk rattled like musketry fire to the exclusion of all else.
Once or twice he stole a look at the man to whom Bhagwan Singh had accredited him—natty in his grey summer tweeds, perfectly self-possessed and brimming over with tit-bits of harmless society gossip. Nugent's eyes were not prone to laughter, but his lips were, and they were laughing almost unceasingly now. Leslie Chermside wondered if this was altogether natural, or was it a pose designed to cover deeper emotions? The man had undoubtedly received a set-back in the last half-hour in the displacement of a programme that must have cost him much intricate scheming. The chartering of that steamer lying at Portland ready for her prey, and the engagement of a crew sufficiently unscrupulous, could have been no light work. How was it, then, that Nugent could accept with complacency the overthrow of the plan? Had he still hopes of success by some devious method at present carefully concealed?
Leslie comforted himself that that could not be. The steamer might rot at her moorings and the crew mutiny before any signal for her movement should come from him, and he would take good care before he vanished into the unknown that the same game should not be played with some pawn less susceptible than himself. He would anonymously warn Mr. Maynard of the Maharajah's design to kidnap his daughter, doing it in such a way that he should not be identified with the first abortive attempt. He clung desperately to the hope that he might remain a congenial memory to the unsuspecting girl at his side.
As soon as the butler and his satellites had served coffee and retired, Miss Sarah Dymmock straightened herself in her chair, and, with a bird-like glance and a shake of her grey curls, prodded her finger at Nugent.
"Now, you high priest of intrigue, I will consult your judgment," was her startling commencement. "The question is, was I right or wrong to eject from the grounds of this mansion an unwashed foreigner whom I caught using violent and insulting language to the French maid whose services I share with my great-niece?"