He looked at me intently. “Don't you?” he asked. “You are certain you don't? Humph! Well, if I were in your place I would jolly well find out; you may be sure of that.”
“What are you driving at, Bayliss? I tell you I don't know what you mean.”
He did not answer. He was frowning and kicking the corner of a rug with his foot.
“I don't understand what you mean,” I repeated. “You are saying too much or too little for my comprehension.”
“I've said too much,” he muttered. “At all events, I have said all I shall say. Was there any other subject you wished to see me about, Knowles? If not I must be going. I'm rather busy this evening.”
“There was no subject but that one. And you will tell me nothing more concerning Miss Morley?”
“No.”
“Good night,” I said, and turned away. Then I turned back.
“Bayliss,” said I, “I think perhaps I had better say this: I have only the kindest feelings toward you. You may have misunderstood my attitude in all this. I have said nothing to prejudice her—Miss Morley against you. I never shall. You care for her, I know. If she cares for you that is enough, so far as I am concerned. Her happiness is my sole wish. I want you to consider me your friend—and hers.”
Once more I extended my hand. For an instant I thought he was going to take it, but he did not.