‘Then perhaps it’s I. If that is so, then, at once, the quarrel’s ended,—pouf! it’s done. Mr Lindon, I fear, because, politically, we differ, regards me as anathema. Has he put some of his spirit into you?—You are a wiser man.’
‘I am aware that you are an adept with words. But this is a case in which words only will not serve.’
‘Then what will serve?’
‘I am myself beginning to wonder.’
‘And I.’
‘As you so courteously suggest, I believe I am wiser than Lindon. I do not care for your politics, or for what you call your politics, one fig. I do not care if you are as other men are, as I am,—not unspotted from the world! But I do care if you are leprous. And I believe you are.’
‘Atherton!’
‘Ever since I have known you I have been conscious of there being something about you which I found it difficult to diagnose;—in an unwholesome sense, something out of the common, non-natural; an atmosphere of your own. Events, so far as you are concerned, have, during the last few days moved quickly. They have thrown an uncomfortably lurid light on that peculiarity of yours which I have noticed. Unless you can explain them to my satisfaction, you will withdraw your pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand, or I shall place certain facts before that lady, and, if necessary, publish them to the world.’
He grew visibly paler but he smiled—facially.
‘You have your own way of conducting a conversation, Mr Atherton.—What are the events to whose rapid transit you are alluding?’