"What matter?" repeated Selwyn. His voice rang a little, but the colour had fled from his face.
"She was—Jack Ruthven charged her with—and me—charged me with—"
"You!"
"Yes."
"Well—it was a lie, wasn't it?" Selwyn's ashy lips scarcely moved, but his eyes were narrowing to a glimmer. "It was a lie, wasn't it?" he repeated.
"Yes—a lie. I'd say it, anyway, you understand—but it really was a lie."
Selwyn quietly leaned back in his chair; a little colour returned to his cheeks.
"All right—old fellow"—his voice scarcely quivered—"all right; go on. I knew, of course, that Ruthven lied, but it was part of the story to hear you say so. Go on. What did Ruthven do?"
"There has been a separation," said the boy in a low voice. "He behaved like a dirty cad—she had no resources—no means of support—" He hesitated, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "Mrs. Ruthven has been very, very kind to me. I was—I am fond of her; oh, I know well enough I never had any business to meet her; I behaved abominably toward you—and the family. But it was done; I knew her, and liked her tremendously. She was the only one who was decent to me—who tried to keep me from acting like a fool about cards—"
Did she try?"