But she did not speak. Instead, she stood still, and looked at him steadily. There was an unearthly expression in her eyes; she seemed to be trying to look into his soul, to read his innermost thoughts. For a few seconds there was a deathly silence, then with a quick movement she turned and left the room.
Again Springfield looked from face to face as if he were hoping for support; then I saw pride flash into his eyes.
'Lady Bolivick, Sir Thomas,' he said quietly, 'I am deeply sorry that this—this scene should have taken place. As you know I am not responsible. Thank you for your kind hospitality.' Then he turned and left the room, and a few seconds later we heard his footsteps on the gravel outside.
CHAPTER XL
MAURICE ST. MABYN'S GENEROSITY
Of what happened afterwards, and of the explanations which were given, it is not for me to write. They do not come within the scope of this history, and would be scarcely of interest to the reader. One thing, however; specially interested me, and that was the large-heartedness of Maurice St. Mabyn. He refused to allow his brother to attempt any explanation, although I felt sure he understood what his brother had done.
'Of course you could not help believing me dead, George,' he said with a laugh. 'That fellow Springfield sent home and brought home all sorts of circumstantial evidence, and you naturally took things over. No, not another word. The fellow has gone, and I'll see that he stays away.'
'But—but why didn't you write, Maurice?' stammered the other.
'Couldn't, my dear chap. For more than two years I was away from civilization; for six months I was a prisoner among the Turks; and when at length, after the taking of Baghdad I was released, I was too ill to do anything, Besides, I thought Jack Carbis would have set your minds at rest. But there, I shall have a great yarn to tell you later.'
To Norah Blackwater he was coldly polite. That she had become his brother's fiancée within a few months of his reported death evidently wounded him deeply, although he made not the slightest reference to it. For my own part I was almost sorry for the girl. I do not believe she had ever cared for George St. Mabyn, although there could be no doubt of his fondness for her. Even when she had accepted him, her heart belonged to Maurice, but being desperately poor, and believing George to be the true heir to the St. Mabyn estates, she had given her promise. But this is only conjecture on my part. Nevertheless, it was impossible not to pity her. Her eyes, as she looked at Maurice, told their own story; she knew that she loved him; knew, too, that she had lost him for ever.