She shook her head. “I have no idea who you are! Mrs. Lightfoot has never mentioned your name.”
Then he said, in a singular tone: “Why should I make a foolish mystery of it? My name is Guy Cheale. I am Agatha’s brother. But she hates illness, and as it makes her wretched to see me in this state—well, we don’t often meet. It’s my fault I haven’t a nurse.”
And then all at once his hand shot out—his bony left hand—and took hold of her dress.
“I know now why you’re here,” he exclaimed. “How stupid of me not to guess it! You’ve come to spy on Agatha. But, believe me, Miss Bower, you’re on the wrong track. You’re not going to help your friend that way.”
“I know that now,” she whispered.
“There’s nothing to find out about Agatha—nothing that will help you, at any rate. I suppose you know that she and Garlett were once great friends?”
“That’s not true,” she said the words with passionate conviction.
“Not true?” he repeated. “Absolutely true! But one thing I’ll grant you. Agatha was the one who cared. He didn’t care—not even in the war hospital when he was so lonely. But she thought he did!”
As if speaking to himself, he added: “And I thought so, too. I used to think that if anything happened to his wife, to use the conventional paraphrase for death—sweet, delicate death—he would marry Agatha.”
Jean stared down at him. She was torn with conflicting feelings in which repulsion and anger for the moment predominated.