“I said that Lady Alicia’s stay cannot be too long,” he answered, softly.
“But—but what good can I be?”
“The good you cannot help being.”
There was another moment’s pause, then the voice whispered, “I don’t quite understand you.”
“My Alicia understands me not!” Mr Beveridge soliloquised in another audible aside. Aloud, or rather in a little lower tone, he answered, “I am friendless, poor, and imprisoned. What is the good in your staying? Ah, Lady Alicia! But why should I detain you? Go, fair friend! Go and forget poor Francis Beveridge!”
There came a soft, surprised answer, “Francis Beveridge?”
“Alas! you have guessed my secret. Yes, that is the name of the unhappiest of mortals.”
As he spoke these melancholy words he threw away the stump of his cigar, took another from his case, and bit off the end.
The voice replied, “I shall remember it—among my friends.”
Mr Beveridge struck a match.