“He is waiting in the study, Sir Terence.”
“Tell his lordship I will be with him at once.”
Mullins departed, and Sir Terence prepared to follow. Gently he disengaged himself from the arms her ladyship now flung about him.
“Courage, my dear,” he said. “Wellington may show me more mercy than I deserve.”
“You are going to tell him?” she questioned brokenly.
“Of course, sweetheart. What else can I do? And since you and Tremayne find it in your hearts to forgive me, nothing else matters very much.” He kissed her tenderly and put her from him. He looked at Sylvia standing beside her and at Tremayne beyond the table. “Comfort her,” he implored them, and, turning, went out quickly.
Awaiting him in the study he found not only Lord Wellington, but Colonel Grant, and by the cold gravity of both their faces he had an inspiration that in some mysterious way the whole hideous truth was already known to them.
The slight figure of his lordship in its grey frock was stiff and erect, his booted leg firmly planted, his hands behind him clutching his riding-crop and cocked hat. His face was set and his voice as he greeted O’Moy sharp and staccato.
“Ah, O’Moy, there are one or two matters to be discussed before I leave Lisbon.”
“I had written to you, sir,” replied O’Moy. “Perhaps you will first read my letter.” And he went to fetch it from the writing-table, where he had left it when completed an hour earlier.