“None,” he replied.
“Then I am free to go.”
“Pardon me; not yet,” he said. “I beg that for once you will hear what I in person have to say. I have been greatly misrepresented.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Pray be patient. I meant to write to you, but that has been difficult, as you know.”
“Of course. And what have you to say, sir?”
“You have misunderstood me. There have been reasons of difference between us which, I am happy to say, are at an end for me.” He meant as to Darthea. “I made a mistake in the prison such as any man might have made. I have been sorry ever since. I made an effort to arrest you in the garden; I did my duty, and was glad you escaped. If you are not satisfied, a time may come when I can put myself at your disposal. Our present service and our relationship make me hope that you may never desire it.”
He was quiet, cool, and perfectly master of himself. It did not suit him to have a break with me, and I well knew why. It would end all chance of his future intercourse with my father, and why he did not wish this to happen I now knew pretty well.
I said, “Mr. Wynne, the arrest is a small matter. Thanks to Miss Peniston and to Major Andre, it came to nothing.” At my use of Darthea’s name I saw him frown, and I went on:
“You have lied about the prison, sir. If Mr. Delaney, who heard you ask my name, were here, I should long ago have exposed you and your conduct to all who cared to hear. You were shrewd enough to provide against the possibility of my telling my own story. I can only hope, at no distant day, to have the means of unmasking a man who—why, I know not—has made himself my enemy. Then, sir, and always I shall hope to ask of you another form of satisfaction.”