There was a pause. Then Rendel said, trying with very indifferent success to speak in a voice that sounded something like his own—
"Didn't you see what happened?"
"I saw that—that—Stamfordham——" Wentworth began, then he stopped.
"Yes," said Rendel curtly, "you saw it—you saw what Stamfordham did? Well, there's an end of it," and he looked miserably around him as though hemmed in by the powers of earth and heaven.
"But, Frank," Wentworth said, still feeling as if all this were some frightful dream, one of those dreams so vivid that they live with the dreamer for weeks afterwards, and sometimes actually go to make his waking opinion of the persons who have appeared in them, "tell me—what——"
"Jack," said Rendel, "it's no good talking about it. I'll tell you another time, I daresay, if I can. Leave me alone now, there's a good fellow—that's all I want."
"Look here, Frank," said Wentworth; "if it's anything—anything that Stamfordham thinks you've done—that—that you oughtn't to have done—well, I don't believe it, that's all!"
"You are a good friend, old Jack," said Rendel, looking at him. "I might have known you wouldn't believe it."
"Of course I don't," said Wentworth stoutly. "I don't know what it is, but I don't believe it all the same."
"Well," said Rendel slowly, "I'll tell you this for your comfort—you needn't believe it."