I glanced round half nervously, for I had a worried feeling that his father and mother would be looking for us, and wondering where we were. Clarence seemed to understand intuitively.
“There is no hurry,” he said gently, “my father and mother are perfectly happy by themselves. It is an old joke among us that they are always ready for a little bit of honeymooning. Let us sit down—it’s more comfortable when one wants to talk.”
I did so. There was a quiet corner where we were practically completely alone. I could see, and I was not sorry for it, that Clarence Payne was really interested—professionally so, I may almost say; his quick instinct had detected something more than ordinary kindly feeling or curiosity of any kind in my tone about the matter, and it made it easier for me to continue.
“Yes,” I repeated, “I did know about the younger brother’s illness, and I should like to hear more. Indeed anything that you feel you can tell me. Is he getting better? Do you think he will recover? Isabel Wynyard only told me that the doctor looked very grave when she or her father inquired about him.”
Clarence thought for a moment before replying. I waited anxiously.
“He is certainly very seriously ill,” he said at last. “But these delicate people often pull through where stronger ones snap. But—I fear there are complications which are unfavourable.”
“Do you mean,” I said eagerly, “anything connected with the whole affair? The mystery, whatever it is? For of course that there is a mystery is no secret. You said I might ask you anything,” I concluded apologetically, for it seemed to me that his face by this time grew earnest, grew increasingly so, as I went on speaking.
“Yes, yes,” he said quickly, “it wasn’t that I was thinking of. You are quite right to speak openly, and yet”—and he turned and looked me fully in the face—“we are both fencing a little, Miss Fitzmaurice, I feel, after all. My impression is that you know something more than so far you have been able to allow. Tell me, is it not so? And on my side, I will confide to you that I believe Caryll Grey would have a much better chance if his mind were more at ease.”
I sat and pondered deeply.
“Yes, Mr Payne,” I replied. “Something has come to my knowledge. I cannot yet tell you how. And I am miserable at not knowing what is right to do. I feared you would say what you have just done, and I would give anything to feel justified in telling you all I know, for little as it is, it may be of enormous importance. But is one, can one ever be justified in making use of what one was not intended to hear?”