The visit was so wholly unexpected that Michael stared at him for a moment without speaking. Cyril had never come to his private sitting-room before without a special invitation.
'I must apologise for this intrusion, Captain Burnett,' began Cyril quickly; 'but I wanted to speak to you particularly. Were you asleep? I am so sorry if I have disturbed you.'
'No, nonsense. I only felt drowsy because I have been out in this cold wind and the room is so warm. Take a chair, Blake. I shall be wide awake in a moment. Have you seen the paper to-day? There is nothing in it, only a remarkably stupid article on Bismarck.'
'I will look at it by and by; but to tell you the truth, I have come to speak to you about my mother. I am seriously uneasy about her: either she is ill, or there is something grievously wrong. I understood from Mollie that you were with her for more than an hour yesterday; in fact, that she sent for you.'
The fire had burnt hollow during Michael's brief nap, and he seized this opportunity to stir it vigorously into a blaze; it afforded him a momentary respite. A few seconds' reflection convinced him, however, that it was no use beating about the bush with a man of Cyril's calibre. The truth had to be told, and no amount of preparation would render it palatable.
'You are right,' he returned quietly; 'Mrs. Blake sent for me. She thought that I should be able to help her in a difficulty.'
Cyril looked intensely surprised. 'I thought Mollie must have made a mistake. It seems very strange that my mother——'
He stopped as though civility did not permit him to finish his sentence. But Michael perfectly understood him.
'It seems strange to you; of course it does. My acquaintance with Mrs. Blake is so slight that it certainly gives me no right to her confidence; but she was in trouble—in great trouble, I may say—and chance threw me in her way, and so——'
But here Cyril interrupted him.