"It would be pretty fatal, for instance, if Carthew chanced to be with the duchess and her when Ambrizette takes my note in," he told himself. "But—there are a dozen other chances of accident, and what's the use of worrying? The wind doesn't always blow from the same quarter. I'd feel safe enough if I only knew where Carthew is at this precise moment."
He crossed to the fireplace, picking up a cigarette by the way, and, having lighted it with trembling fingers, stood staring down into the dull glow of the dying logs on the hearth. He was wondering whether all was really lost, and listening most impatiently to every slightest sound. But he had not long to wait before Sallie, pale of face and with a world of woe in her wet eyes, came very quietly into the room.
He held out both his hands to her, but she stopped at a little distance.
"You mustn't blame me, Sallie," he said in a voice meant to carry conviction with it. "I didn't know—I had no idea—I believed honestly from the first that you were—"
"It makes no difference now," she interrupted, "and—I—I—Oh! I'm so ashamed. What can Mr. Carthew think of me! And he knew all the time that I had no right to be here!"
"It wasn't your fault either," he assured her soothingly. "You were misled—no less than I was. How could we ever have foreseen—But there's no time to talk of that just now. We must be off. Captain Dove has gone on ahead. He left me to show you the way to the boat."
She lifted a hand dazedly to her forehead.
"I don't know what to do," she murmured. "But—of course, I can't stay here now."
Slyne was watching her tensely. "Most assuredly not," he agreed in haste and trying hard to hide his elation. "You can't possibly stay here—after what has happened. You've far too much proper pride."
"And my promise to you is no longer binding," she said, "since I'm not—It was Lady Josceline Justice with whom you made that bargain—and not with me."