"Reynolds, will you carry a letter for me?" said Geoffrey at last. "Think before you answer. You are no longer in my service, you know. I can no longer pay you."
"I am always in the earl's service," Reynolds interrupted.
"Thank you, Reynolds. The letter is to Mrs. Oswald Carey. You remember her?"
Reynolds started. "Forgive me, earl—but does your—your honor know—" The old man spoke in much trouble; Geoffrey looked up in amazement.
"Oh, forgive me, Earl Brompton—but—I once told a lie to you. That night—you remember that night when Sir John met your lordship in his room, and I said afterward there had been no one there?"
"Yes," said Geoffrey. "What then?"
"There was some one there. A lady was there. Mrs. Carey."
A terrible light broke upon Geoffrey. It was she that had taken the paper; it was she that was the traitor who had been the cause of Dacre's death. And his old love for her had killed his friend.
"There is no one left"—the words broke from his lips with a sob—"no one but you, Reynolds." He groaned aloud with rage and sorrow as he saw the part this woman had played. She had come between him and the girl he loved; she had betrayed the loyal cause; she had struck down Dacre, with her lying lips, her lovely eyes. And he had almost loved her.
"I have a message for your honor." Reynolds spoke humbly, timidly, as if his master blamed him. "The young American lady—Miss Windsor—before they went away, she desired me to write to her."