"Yes, but Colonel Wynch-Frère seems to think there is something in this one. The names and dates are so accurate. I—it was before my time. Did you ever hear of R——?"
She named a notorious political offender, who, nearly thirty years before, fled to Germany, and there committed suicide on the eve of his arrest.
"Yes," said Claud, thoughtfully, "I remember hearing of it. I was in the nursery at the time. I think Mabel and I acted the whole scene together. We liked a violent death of any sort. But what about him?"
"They say Leon Percivale is his son."
Claud raised his eyes to the scene before him. There lay the bay, there was the spot where the white Swan had anchored. There in the dawn, a twelvemonth ago, he had seen the sun rise over Percivale the victor—Percivale, who had saved Elsa Brabourne from a stigma worse than death.
Now the blow had fallen. The girl whom he had rescued had betrayed him, as Claud had feared she would. The blood rushed to his face, a storm of angry sorrow to his heart. Why, why had such a man wasted his heart on so slight a thing as Elsa?
Wynifred's eyes rested keenly on her husband. She saw his silence, his consternation.
"Oh, Claud, it is not true, is it?"
"No, darling, I know that it is not true; and yet—yet—I fear there is some truth in it."
She came close to him, laying her hands on his shoulders.