“The idea never entered my head,” said Gordon.
“It has never been out of mine,” replied Durnovo, with a little harsh laugh which was almost pathetic. “I don't want you to do anything now,” he went on more gently. It was wonderful how well he knew Maurice Gordon. The suggested delay appealed to one side of his nature, the softened tone to another. “There is time enough. When I come back I will speak of it again.”
“You have not spoken to her?”
“No, I have not spoken to her.”
Maurice Gordon shook his head.
“She is a queer girl,” he said, trying to conceal the hope that was in his voice. “She is cleverer than me, you know, and all that. My influence is very small, and would scarcely be considered.
“But your interests would,” suggested Durnovo. “Your sister is very fond of you, and—I think I have one or two arguments to put forward which she would recognise as uncommonly strong.”
The colour which had been returning slowly to Maurice Gordon's face now faded away again. His lips were dry and shrivelled as if he had passed through a sirocco.
“Mind,” continued Durnovo reassuringly, “I don't say I would use them unless I suspected that you were acting in opposition to my wishes.”
Gordon said nothing. His heart was throbbing uncomfortably—it seemed to be in his throat.