‘With pleasure.’
‘Can I trust you?’
‘To listen to what he has to say?—I believe so.’
‘Can I trust you to respect my confidence?’
He was not at all abashed,—I never saw Sydney Atherton when he was abashed. Whatever the offence of which he has been guilty, he always seems completely at his ease. His eyes twinkled.
‘You can,—I will not breathe a syllable even to papa.’
‘In that case, come! But, you understand, I am going to put to the test the affirmations which you have made during all these years, and to prove if you have any of the feeling for me which you pretend.’
Directly we were in the stranger’s room, Sydney marched straight up to the bed, stared at the man who was lying in it, crammed his hands into his trouser pockets, and whistled. I was amazed.
‘So!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s you!’
‘Do you know this man?’ I asked.