'No, no, not that, Luscombe. I am sure that if I ever married, if I ever loved a woman, I should know it,—I should feel it instinctively.'
'I am not sure. You say you have no memory of your father or mother; surely if you remembered anything you'd remember them? Now suppose,—of course it is an almost impossible contingency, but suppose you won Lorna Bolivick's consent to be your wife; suppose you obtained a position sufficiently good for Sir Thomas and Lady Bolivick to consent to your marrying her; and then suppose your memory came back, and the whole of your past were made known to you, and you discovered that there was a woman here in England, or somewhere else, whom you married years ago, and whom you loved, and who had been grieving because of your loss? Can't you see the situation?'
I could see I had impressed him. Instead of the light of resolution, there was a haunting fear in his eyes.
'I had not thought of that,' he murmured. 'Of course it is not so,—I am sure it is not so. Still, as you say, it would not be fair to submit her to a suspicion of danger.'
'Then of course you give up the thought?'
'Oh, no,' he replied. 'Of course I must think it out, and I must meet the situation; but I give up nothing—nothing.'
As I rose to leave him, McClure stood in the door of the bedroom and beckoned to me.
'Springfield and Buller are downstairs,' he whispered to me; 'they have come to lunch. Can you manage to get a chat with the fellow? It seems horrible to have such suspicions, but——'
'Yes, I understand,' I replied, noting his hesitation.
'If what is in both our minds has any foundation in fact,' he went on, 'Edgecumbe should be warned. I hate talking like this, and it is just horrible.'