Then at last Seymour Michael spoke. He did not raise his eyes, but his words were evidently addressed to Arthur.
“I acted,” he said, “as I thought best. Secrecy was necessary for Agar's safety. I knew that if I told you too much you would tell your mother, and—I know your mother better than either you or Jem Agar know her. She is not fit to be trusted with the most trifling secret.”
“Well, you see, you were quite wrong,” burst out Mrs. Agar, with a derisive laugh. “For I knew it all along. Arthur told me at the first.”
Her voice came as a shock to them all. It was harsh and common, the voice of the street-wrangler.
“Then,” cried Seymour Michael, as sharp as fate, “why did you not tell Miss Glynde?”
He raised his arm, pointing one lean dark finger into her face.
“I knew,” he hissed, “that the boy would tell you. I counted on it. Why did you not tell Miss Glynde? Come! Tell us why.”
Mark Ruthine's face was a study. It was the face of a very keen sportsman at the corner of a “drive.” In every word he saw twice as much as simple Jem Agar ever suspected.
“Well,” answered Mrs. Agar, wavering, “because I thought it better not.”
“No,” Dora said, “you kept it from me because you wanted me to marry Arthur. And you thought that I should do so because he was master of Stagholme. You wanted to trick me into marrying Arthur before”—she hesitated—“before—”