"The matter is too delicate for speech," continued the Earl, "and one you and I can never cross swords over. What is the use of these words? We each know what we know." He glanced swiftly at the other. "Do what seems good to you. You need give no thought to me."
"Because I am helpless I came to you," answered Sir Francis in an agitated voice.
"And I can be no help."
"Will you not aid me to discover the writer of this?" Again he touched the paper.
"I have no clue to go upon," answered the Earl slowly, "and I think you make too much of it. What does any of it matter?"
His manner and his tone were devoid of meaning. Sir Francis Boyle, not knowing him, felt as if he dealt with a man of sand. Against his own conviction he believed the Earl was indifferent—to Miss Boyle, to everything; but he could not remain content.
They fell both into silence. The solitary drawer passed them in a noiseless weariness. Sir Francis picked up the paper and folded it mechanically, then he looked across the table at my lord. A sharp exclamation left his lips, for he seemed to be looking at a dead man.
Against the murky background the face of Rose Lyndwood showed white in between the tumbled grey curls. There was a fixed smile on his colourless lips and a lifeless droop in his weary pose. The brilliants under his chin sparkled in an incongruous fashion.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
Sir Francis moved.