“Terence was too busy making love to you,” said Sylvia, and there was the least suspicion of regret in her almost boyish voice.
“That may account for it,” her ladyship confessed, and fell for a moment into consideration of that delicious and rather amusing past, when O’Moy’s ferocious hesitancy and flaming jealousy had delighted her with the full perception of her beauty’s power. With a rush, however, the present forced itself back upon her notice. “But I still don’t see why Count Samoval should have offered me assistance if he did not intend to grant it when the time came.”
Sylvia explained that it was from the Portuguese Government that the demand for justice upon the violator of the nunnery at Tavora emanated, and that Samoval’s offer might be calculated to obtain him information of Butler’s whereabouts when they became known, so that he might surrender him to the Government.
“My dear!” Lady O’Moy was shocked almost beyond expression. “How you must dislike the man to suggest that he could be such a—such a Judas.”
“I do not suggest that he could be. I warn you never to run the risk of testing him. He may be as honest in this matter as he pretends. But if ever Dick were to come to you for help, you must take no risk.”
The phrase was a happier one than Sylvia could suppose. It was almost the very phrase that Dick himself had used; and its reiteration by another bore conviction to her ladyship.
“To whom then should I go?” she demanded plaintively. And Sylvia, speaking with knowledge, remembering the promise that Tremayne had given her, answered readily: “There is but one man whose assistance you could safely seek. Indeed I wonder you should not have thought of him in the first instance, since he is your own, as well as Dick’s lifelong friend.”
“Ned Tremayne?” Her ladyship fell into thought. “Do you know, I am a little afraid of Ned. He is so very sober and cold. You do mean Ned—don’t you?”
“Whom else should I mean?”
“But what could he do?”