“Who, Sibyl?”
“My Lord Jesus Christ, my beautiful Lord Jesus Christ.”
Lord Grayleigh bent and picked up a book which had fallen on the carpet. He turned the conversation. The child’s eyes, very grave and very blue, watched him. She did not say anything further, but she seemed to read the thought he wished to hide. He stood up, then he sat down again. Sibyl had that innate tact which is born in some natures, and always knew where to pause in her probings and questionings.
“Now,” she continued, after a pause, “dear Mr. and Mrs. Holman will be rich.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Holman,” said Lord Grayleigh; “who are they?”
“They are my very own most special friends. They keep a toy-shop in Greek Street, a back street near our house. Mrs. Holman is going to buy a lot of gold out of the mine. I’ll send her a letter to tell her that she can buy it quick. You’ll be sure to keep some of the gold for Mrs. Holman, she is a dear old woman. You’ll be quite sure to remember her?”
“Quite sure, Sibyl.”
“Hadn’t you better make a note of it? Father always makes notes when he wants to remember things. Have you got a note-book?”
“In my pocket.”
“Please take it out and put down about Mrs. Holman and the gold out of the mine.”