"Only one," said the old Briton shortly, and he thought of Cary. "You haven't answered me."
Stewart rose, and his tone was final.
"Indeed, sir, it is not for me to say."
Trevelyan's father clasped his hands over the knob of his stick, rested his chin on them and looked up at Stewart from under his shaggy brows—curiously.
"Well—well, since you won't, you won't, I suppose! I'll have to wait until Robert comes back—"
Stewart wheeled abruptly and went over to the east window.
"After all, the boy is his own master," Trevelyan's father said. "He's whimsical and headstrong, too—" he broke off—"Everything was all straight, though—his getting out, I mean?" The deep eyes peered anxiously from the old officer's weather-beaten face.
Stewart remained at the window, looking at the stretch of lawn. For the first time since his interview at the Secretary's, his voice was broken.
"You need not be ashamed of Rob."
The old Briton drew a deep breath and he laughed a little—"After all, nothing else matters! I was sure of it!" and then again, "I—was—sure—of—it!"