Barnaby had dropped his stick. He could stand up without its support. For the time he had borrowed strength of passion.
"You don't know?" he said, and took a long breath.
"I don't," said Rackham. "There's no occasion to fight me, if that's what you brought me here for. I saw her; I spoke to her;—but I was fool enough not to understand. I supposed she was up in town for the day, buying rubbish. I never doubted she was going back.—I thought you were still on your sick-bed and she was looking after you—"
He checked himself abruptly in the burst of angry candour that his surprise evoked.
"You needn't look so damnably glad—" he broke out, "because I've shown myself a simpleton, not a villain. Look here, Barnaby, I've answered your question. I'll ask you to tell me one thing. She's gone, and you have lost her. What do you mean to do?"
"Search London from end to end," said Barnaby, "till I find her."
"That's how we stand, is it?" said Rackham. "You're not wise enough to let her go?"
He spoke more slowly, recovering from his astonishment. There was a light in his eye, and into his voice had come a ring of exultation. He had got over his first vexation, his rage at his own stupid failure to guess the great good news.
"What right have you to say that?" cried Barnaby.
"For the matter of that," said Rackham, "what rights have you?"