“I—I don’t know, papa,” I said, which was true. “It seems so strange.”
But this was not the whole truth. I had a queer, vague misgiving that the mystery had to do with the Whytes and their family affairs, though my mind was not collected enough to go into it properly.
“You will understand it directly,” said papa. “Ridiculous—”—he gave a strange little laugh—“as if my Connie—so open too—”
But somehow this did not reassure me.
When we got to Lady Honor’s, we were shown into the library. There was no one there, but in a moment or two old Mr Bickersteth hobbled in. He nodded to papa; afterwards I found, that he and papa had met already that afternoon. Papa had looked in to speak to Lady Honor about some poor protégé of hers, and she had taken the opportunity of telling him of the Whytes’ troubles. Old Mr Bickersteth spoke kindly to me—even more kindly than usual—almost as though he were a little sorry for me.
I fancy I did look rather white and startled.
“Connie is a little frightened,” said papa. “I told you I should say nothing to her, so that Lady Honor or Captain Whyte can question her themselves straight away. I should like to lose no time, if you please, Mr Bickersteth; I am extremely busy.”
“Of course, of course, very sorry to detain you,” said the old gentleman. “Just a little mistake, no doubt. You have taken it up too seriously, my dear Percy.”
But papa shook his head, though he smiled a little, too.
“Shall we go to the drawing-room?” he said; on which Mr Bickersteth opened the door and led the way, talking, as we crossed the hall, in a cheery, ordinary manner; no doubt to make it seem as if nothing were the matter.