“What?” shrieked Beryl, to whom this was news indeed. “Who is he?”
“You do not know him, dear, but his name is Captain Warden. He is at present in West Africa, somewhere near the Benuë River.”
“And did he send it to you?”
“Yes. I received it only last night. It would have reached me four months ago, had not Mrs. Laing stolen one of my letters—perhaps others as well—and that naturally led to some confusion.”
There was a moment of stupefied silence at the table. Everybody seemed to be stricken dumb. Rosamund, crimson with anger, could only mutter:
“What insolence!”
“It is an unpleasant thing to say, but it is true,” said Evelyn, discussing her rival’s transgression in the most matter–of–fact tone, though she was conscious of a queer tingling at the roots of her hair, and she hardly recognized the sound of her own voice.
Baumgartner felt it imperative to stop what threatened to develop into a scandal.
“Miss Dane, you are making a serious charge against a lady of the highest repute,” he said, in his best chairman–of–the–company style.
“I mean it, every word,” cried Evelyn, a trifle more vehemently. “Lord Fairholme, am I speaking the truth or not?” she demanded, suddenly wheeling round on the inoffensive peer.