“Mr. Caryll! Save us! What is keeping him?” he cried. “Can they—can they—”
The door opened, and Mr. Caryll walked in, ushered by the hostess. Both turned to confront him, Hortensia's eyes swollen from her weeping.
“Well?” quoth his lordship. “Did they find nothing?”
Mr. Caryll advanced with the easy, graceful carriage that was one of his main charms, his clothes so skilfully restored by Leduc that none could have guessed the severity of the examination they had undergone.
“Since I am here, and alone, your lordship may conclude such to be the case. Mr. Green is preparing for departure. He is very abject; very chap-fallen. I am almost sorry for Mr. Green. I am by nature sympathetic. I have promised to make my complaint to my Lord Carteret. And so, I trust there is an end to a tiresome matter.”
“But then, sir?” quoth his lordship. “But then—are you the bearer of no letter?”
Mr. Caryll shot a swift glance over his shoulder at the door. He deliberately winked at the earl. “Did your lordship expect letters?” he inquired. “That was scarcely reason enough to suppose me a courier. There is some mistake, I imagine.”
Between the wink and the words his lordship was bewildered.
Mr. Caryll turned to the lady, bowing. Then he waved a hand over the downs. “A fine view,” said he airily, and she stared at him. “I shall treasure sweet memories of Maidstone.” Her stare grew stonier. Did he mean the landscape or some other matter? His tone was difficult to read—a feature peculiar to his tone.
“Not so shall I, sir,” she made answer. “I shall never think of it other than with burning cheeks—unless it be with gratitude to your shrewdness which saved me.”