“Captain Ryecroft,” he at length cries out in hoarse voice, the revulsion of feeling almost choking him, “if I’ve been wronging you I ask forgiveness; and you’ll forgive. For if I have, you do not—cannot know what has occurred.”
“I’ve told you I don’t,” affirms Ryecroft, now certain that the other speaks of something different, and more serious than the affair he had himself been thinking of. “For Heaven’s sake, Mr Shenstone, explain! What has occurred there?”
“Miss Wynn is gone away!”
“Miss Wynn gone away! But whither?”
“Nobody knows. All that can be said is, she disappeared on the night of the ball, without telling any one—no trace left behind—except—”
“Except what?”
“A ring—a diamond cluster. I found it myself in the summer-house. You know the place—you know the ring too?”
“I do, Mr Shenstone; have reasons, painful ones. But I am not called upon to give them now, nor to you. What could it mean?” he adds, speaking to himself, thinking of that cry he heard when being rowed off. It connects itself with what he hears now; seems once more resounding in his ears, more than ever resembling a shriek! “But, sir; please proceed! For God’s sake, keep nothing back—tell me everything!”
Thus appealed to, Shenstone answers by giving an account of what has occurred at Llangorren Court—all that had transpired previous to his leaving; and frankly confesses his own reasons for being in Boulogne.
The manner in which it is received still further satisfying him of the other’s guiltlessness, he again begs to be forgiven for the suspicions he had entertained.