The boy reddened. That Chilcote should appeal to him stirred him to an uneasy feeling of pride and uncertainty.
Loder saw his advantage and pressed it home. “It's come about through this crystal-gazing business. I'm afraid I didn't play my part—rather made an ass of myself; I wouldn't swallow the thing, and—and Lady Astrupp—” He paused, measuring Blessington with a glance. “Well, my dear boy, you—you know what women are!”
Blessington was only twenty-three. He reddened again, and assumed an air of profundity. “I know sir,” he said, with a shake of the head.
Loder's sense of humor was keen, but he kept a grave face. “I knew you'd catch my meaning; but I want you to do something more. If Lady Astrupp should ask you who was in her tent this past ten minutes, I want you—” Again he stopped, looking at his companion's face.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to tell an immaterial lie for me.”
Blessington returned his glance; then he laughed a little uncomfortably. “But surely, sir—”
“She recognized me, you mean?” Loder's eyes were as keen as steel.
“Yes.”
“Then you're wrong. She didn't.”