"Oh, Sir, I could not stay there after—"
Sir Barry gets up and walks hastily to the window, and, coming back, says gently:
"You will pardon me for asking you something painful?" Jantie raises her pale face.
"Oh, Sir, nothing hurts my feelings now; sometimes I forget I have any left." Sir Barry laughs.
"A girl like you talking such nonsense; why child, your life has scarcely begun." He feels so sorry, so unutterably sorry for her.
"Tell me Jantie, have you any idea where your—where Cyril Fanchon is?"
The fire in the grate crackles and snaps cheerily, Jantie looks at the glowing coals, then she asks:
"Why do you come here to ask me that, Sir Barry?"
"My dear, you may be sure it is not from idle curiosity. A very dear friend of mine has been almost ruined by his partner; his name was Fanchon, but he is here in this house, so ill he can neither confess his guilt, if he be guilty, nor defend himself, if he is innocent. Tell me honestly, Jantie, do you know the man here sick?"
The falling snow outside comes in spiteful little flakes, and slaps against the heavily curtained window. Jantie shivers; surely she can trust the man beside her, who has always proved her friend.