Lord St. Amant found himself debating, with a kind of terrible self-questioning, whether now was the moment to speak to Oliver.
"Of course I understand," he said shakily. "And I think Laura did quite right. But even so I suggest that nothing is said to your mother—yet. I have a very serious reason for asking you to beg Laura to keep your marriage absolutely secret."
He was looking earnestly, painfully into the face of the younger man.
Oliver Tropenell's countenance suddenly stiffened. It assumed a terrible, mask-like expression.
"Had your journey to London," he asked slowly, "anything to do with my affairs? I thought so once—at dinner. Did Sir Angus Kinross send for you?"
Lord St. Amant could not, did not, speak. But at last he bent his head.
Then Oliver asked another question, quickly, in a matter-of-fact tone: "How many hours have I left?"
"Till to-morrow, I mean till Friday, morning," the other answered in a stifled voice.
He longed to go on, to tell the man standing by his side what Sir Angus had said as to his having "a sporting chance." But there was something in the expression of the rigid, mask-like face which forbade his saying that.
And then Oliver Tropenell turned round and grasped his host's hand.