“This will make a horrid scandal,” said Lord Garrow, who was appalled at the prospect of being mixed up in so disagreeable an affair. “Why not leave it alone? It is not our business.”
“But it is Beauclerk's business, papa. Just put yourself in his place. Surely that is not asking too much.”
“We must avoid everything precipitate,” said Reckage; “we mustn't be over-hasty.”
Lady Fitz Rewes wiped her eyes, rose from the table, and began to draw on her gloves.
“But we must be friends,” she said; “if you cannot go to them, I will. Do you realise the poor child's position? An illegal marriage! She is the most gentle, beautiful person I ever saw, with the best head, the purest heart. She professes nothing. I judge her by her actions.”
“But you must see,” said Reckage, “that I can't give Orange all this pain unless I have something more definite to go on. Sir Piers tells us that he played cards with Wrexham Parflete last week.” He paused.
“Wait a moment,” said Harding; “wait a moment. Does any one present know Parflete's handwriting?”
“I do,” said Pensée. “I saw his last letter to his wife. He wrote it before he committed suicide.”
Sir Piers took out his pocket-book, and, from the several papers it contained, selected a three-cornered note.
“By the merest chance,” said he, “I have this with me.”