Was it to be wondered at (the whole scene rose vividly before his eyes as it was to be—as it certainly would be), was it to be wondered at that the grateful man should, on an impulse, seize the honest servitor's hand, grasp it warmly, and then, with a catch in his voice, cry aloud, "Whaley, you have served me well!" The rest would follow. Not less, he took it, than five hundred pounds.
Should he go further? Should he offer his services for taking back the gem discreetly and seeing that it should be laid, through means he could command, upon the dressing-table of the culprit's daughter—no one should know whence?
Time must show; the opportunity would develop; the details of the drama would be filled in. But the main lines were clear. George Whaley would save the head of the family of de Bohun; he would save the soul—and, incidentally, the more earthly reputation—of the head of the family of de Bohun. He would receive the little spontaneous, heartfelt reward due to so honest a liegeman of the de Bohuns. Ah! Chivalry was not dead....
But nothing must be done on impulse. He glanced at his watch. It was only just past three. He must watch the poor tortured soul until there had developed in it, as inevitably there would through the effect of time, a false security—a false security brought by suspicions and counter-suspicions among the guests, who could never dream the real truth. Upon such a mood the revelation would fall with tenfold effect.
Then, and then only—he would watch his moment—would George Whaley unburden himself of the curse of the de Bohuns and turn that curse into a blessing; moral to his master, and to himself material.
Such was the plan of George Whaley. Once more he recited, but in an undertone, a whisper, the words of which could not be heard by another, the very phrases he was to use, the gestures proper to the great moment when it should come. So discreetly did he rehearse that young Ethelbert without, his ear glued to the keyhole, heard nothing but a murmur of monologue within, and feared in one wild moment that the awful revelation about Lord Galton had driven the butler mad.
[CHAPTER SEVEN]
Marjorie had insisted upon seeing her father alone, and she had worked it easily enough.
The Professor in his relief from the accursed emerald had fallen into a sprightly mood. He had compelled young Galton to take a second walk, and therein had bored the turfist to agonies; which only shows that God is just, and that we are punished in that by which we sinned; in Galton's case, the avenue. During that walk the crystallographist volubly explained his exciting experiences in the past as an amateur detective. His large prattling mouth discoursed of marvellous sleuth-deeds in the past. But he did not go too far. He said nothing of emeralds. He kept the tit-bit, the great revelation, for his host—and he knew at what time to deliver it.