“Certainly.”
“A grave charge has been brought against me.”
She spoke very suavely, but he noticed that her tone was pitched higher than usual.
“A charge, Lady Selina?”
“In connection with the sickness in this house to-day, and the diphtheria long ago that took from Timothy Farleigh his two little girls.”
The young man instantly realised what had taken place. A swift glance at Agatha confirmed his worst fears. The girl’s lips were quivering; her bosom heaved. John, disciplined on the field of battle, stood doggedly at attention.
“These young people,” continued Lady Selina, “accuse me of no less a crime than murder.”
“Uncle Timothy used the word,” said Agatha defiantly.
“And his niece, whom I have befriended in many ways, dares to lay the death of the two Farleigh children at my door.”
Between two fires, and enfiladed by his own thoughts, stood the uneasy Grimshaw. Cicely’s kisses were still warm on his lips. To do him justice, he was uneasy because all consideration, naturally enough, became centred upon Cicely. Swiftly, he perceived one way out of the wilderness. Taken aback, too honest to temporise deliberately, he said impetuously: