“Before I came back,” added Jem imperturbably. “That was it, that was it!” cried Seymour Michael, grasping at the straw which might serve to turn the current aside from himself.
But the attempt failed. No one took any notice of it. Jem was looking at Dora, and she was looking anywhere except at him.
It was Jem who spoke, with the decisiveness of the president of a court-martial.
“That will come afterwards,” he said. “And now, perhaps,” he went on, turning towards Seymour, “you will kindly explain why you broke your word to me. Explain it to these l—— [sic.] to Miss Glynde.”
Seymour Michael shrugged his shoulders.
“Why, what is the good of making all this fuss about it now?” he explained. “It has all come right. I acted as I thought best. That is all the explanation I have to offer.”
“Can you not do better than that?” inquired Jem, with a dangerous suavity. “You had better try.”
Dora was looking at Jem now, appealingly. She knew that tone of voice, and feared it. She alone suspected the anger that was hidden behind so calm an exterior.
Seymour Michael preserved a dogged silence, glancing from side to side beneath his lowered lashes. He had not forgotten Jem's threat, but he felt the safeguard of a lady's presence.
“I can offer an explanation,” put in Mark Ruthine. “This man is mentally incapable of telling the truth and of doing the straight thing. There are some people who are born liars. This man is one. It is not quite fair to judge him as one would judge others. I have known him for years, have watched him, have studied him.”