In the scared hush that followed the Count perceived that he had stumbled headlong into a mystery. He saw Lady O’Moy’s face turn whiter and whiter, saw her sapphire eyes dilating as they regarded him.
“Richard Butler!” she echoed. “What of Richard Butler? Tell me. Tell me at once.”
Hesitating before such signs of distress, Samoval looked at O’Moy, to meet a dejected scowl.
Lady O’Moy turned to her husband. “What is it?” she demanded. “You know something about Dick and you are keeping it from me. Dick is in trouble?”
“He is,” O’Moy admitted. “In great trouble.”
“What has he done? You spoke of an affair at Evora or Tavora, which is not to be mentioned before ladies. I demand to know.” Her affection and anxiety for her brother invested her for a moment with a certain dignity, lent her a force that was but rarely displayed by her.
Seeing the men stricken speechless, Samoval from bewildered astonishment, O’Moy from distress, she jumped to the conclusion, after what had been said, that motives of modesty accounted for their silence.
“Leave us, Sylvia, please,” she said. “Forgive me, dear. But you see they will not mention these things while you are present.” She made a piteous little figure as she stood trembling there, her fingers tearing in agitation at one of Samoval’s roses.
She waited until the obedient and discreet Miss Armytage had passed from view into the wing that contained the adjutant’s private quarters, then sinking limp and nerveless to her chair:
“Now,” she bade them, “please tell me.”