“Temptation,” was the answer. “It’s an unpleasant thing to struggle against.”
“But you spoke of poverty?”
“To be sure. If I weren’t poor I could put my fortunes to the test, and make an end of the matter one way or the other.”
There was a pause. “Sure I hope I am the last man to force a confidence, Ned,” said O’Moy. “But you certainly seem as if it would do you good to confide.”
Tremayne shook himself mentally. “I think we had better deal with the matter of this dispatch that was tampered with at Penalva.”
“So we will, to be sure. But it can wait a minute.” Sir Terence pushed back his chair, and rose. He crossed slowly to his secretary’s side. “What’s on your mind, Ned?” he asked with abrupt solicitude, and Ned could not suspect that it was the matter on Sir Terence’s own mind that was urging him—but urging him hopefully.
Captain Tremayne looked up with a rueful smile. “I thought you boasted that you never forced a confidence.” And then he looked away. “Sylvia Armytage tells me that she is thinking of returning to England.”
For a moment the words seemed to Sir Terence a fresh irrelevance; another attempt to change the subject. Then quite suddenly a light broke upon his mind, shedding a relief so great and joyous that he sought to check it almost in fear.
“It is more than she has told me,” he answered steadily. “But then, no doubt, you enjoy her confidence.”
Tremayne flashed him a wry glance and looked away again.