She spoke of the dead man with that hushed voice which death, with a singular impartiality to race or creed, seems to demand of the survivors wheresoever he passes.
White met her earnest gaze with a grave nod. “Yes,” he answered. “He was deceived.”
“He said before he went out that he did not want to go to the meeting at all,” went on Joan, in a tone of tender reminiscence, “but that he had always made a point of sacrificing his inclination to his sense of duty. Poor father!”
“Yes,” said the major, looking out of the window. And he bore Joan's steady, searching glance like a man.
“Tell me,” she said suddenly. “Were you and Tony deceived also?”
Major White reflected for a moment. It is unwise to tell even the smallest lie in haste.
“No,” he answered at length. “Not so entirely as your father.”
He uncrossed his legs, and made a feeble attempt to divert her thoughts.
But Joan was on the trail as it were of a half-formed idea in her own mind, and she would not have been a woman if she had relinquished the quest so easily.
“But you were deceived at first?” she inquired, rather anxiously. “I know Tony was. I am sure of it. Perhaps he found out later; but you—”