Christopher hid his face in his arms and the room became very silent. The fire crackled cheerfully and strange shadows lived uncertain lives on the ceiling. Aymer put the paper-knife down at last and looked at his charge. He was aware it was a critical moment for them both: also he was quite suddenly aware he was more fond of the child than he had previously imagined. But mostly in his mind was the sickening appreciation of what hours of torture that solitary silent woman must have endured.
“Christopher, old boy, come here,” he said quietly.
The boy got up. His face was flushed, hot with his efforts to control himself.
“Do you want the light, Cæsar?” 42
“No, I want you.”
He came unwillingly and sat down on the edge of the sofa, playing with a piece of string.
“You need not be frightened at all,” said Aymer. “It is all utterly impossible now, we both of us know that.”
“I suppose so.”
“You know it. You only did what Marley told you to do. You didn’t steal because you wanted money yourself.”
But Christopher was doggedly truthful.