She must never know! He had blustered and raged in that troubled scene with Sefton; but sober reflection taught him that if he were to be safe in the future he must conciliate the man he hated. A word from Sefton could spoil his happiness; and he could not afford to be ill friends with the man who had power to speak that word; nor could he afford to arouse that man’s suspicions by any eccentricity of conduct. He had refused to hear the story of Harold Marchant’s life from the courier’s lips, as Sefton suggested, had refused with scornful vehemence. But reflection told him that he ought to examine the courier’s chain of evidence, and to discover for himself if the links were strong enough to make Harold Marchant’s identity with Fiordelisa’s lover an absolute certainty. He wanted to know the worst, not to be deluded by the illogical imaginings of an amateur detective. Again, it was natural that a man in his position should look closely into this story, testing its accuracy by the severest scrutiny; and he wanted to act naturally, to act as Sefton would expect him to act.
Influenced by these considerations, he called in Tite Street on Monday afternoon, and found Sefton at home, in a room which occupied the entire first floor of a small house, but which could be made into two rooms by drawing a curtain.
It was the most luxurious room that Vansittart had seen for a long time, but there was a studied sobriety in its luxury which marked the man of sense as well as the sybarite. The colouring was subdued—dull olive—without relief save from a few pieces of old Italian ebony and ivory work, a writing-table, a coffer, a book-case. Every inch of the floor was carpeted with dark-brown velvet pile. No slippery parquetry or sham oak here, no gaudy variety of Oriental prayer-rugs or furry trophies of the chase. Capacious armchairs tempted to idleness; a choice selection of the newest and oldest books invited to study; two large windows looking east and west flooded the room with light; and a fireplace wide enough for a baronial hall promised heat and cheerfulness when frosts and fogs combine to make London odious.
“You like my den,” said Sefton, when Vansittart murmured his surprise at finding so good a room in so small a house. “Comfortable, ain’t it? The house is small, but I’ve reduced the number of rooms to three. Below I have only a dining-room; above, only my bedroom. There is a rabbit-hutch at the back of the landing for my valet, and a garret in the roof for the women. Living in a colony of artists, I have taken pains to keep clear of everything artistic. I have neither stained glass nor tapestry, neither Raffaelle ware nor bronze idols; but I can offer my friends a comfortable chair and a decently cooked dinner. I hope you’ll put my professions to the test some evening, when I can get one or two of my clever neighbours to meet you.”
Vansittart professed himself ready to dine with Mr. Sefton on any occasion, and straightway proceeded to the business of his visit.
“You were good enough to suggest that I should see the courier, Ferrari,” he said, “and I was impolite enough to refuse—rather roughly, I fear.”
“You were certainly a little rough,” answered Sefton, with his suave smile, “but I could make allowances for a man in your position. I honour the warmth of your feelings; and I admire the chivalry which makes you indifferent to the belongings of the woman you love.”
“That which you are pleased to call chivalry, I take to be the natural conduct of any man in such circumstances. Honestly, now, Mr. Sefton, would you give up the girl you love if you found her brother had been the—the chief actor in such a scene as that row in the Venetian caffè?”
“Well, I suppose not; if I were tremendously in love. But life would be considerably embittered, to my mind, by the apprehension of such a brother-in-law’s reappearance, or by any unlooked-for concatenation which might bring his personality into the foreground.”
“I am willing to risk such a concatenation. In the mean time it has occurred to me that I ought to see Ferrari, and look into his story dispassionately. If you will kindly give me his address I will write and ask him to call upon me.”