"Do you know that Madeline has given us the slip?" he said, in a hoarse whisper.
"Have you heard from her also?"
"Then you know?" he questioned, with a gasp. "What has she said to you? Let me see her letter."
Sir Charles handed him Madeline's letter without a word. Gervase read it carefully, and then handed it back with a little sigh of relief. She had not told his father what she had told him, and for that mercy he was supremely grateful.
For several moments the two men looked at each other in silence. Neither had the courage to blame the other, and yet neither was disposed to take the blame himself. Gervase was convinced that his father played the game badly at the beginning, but he had played it worse at the end. Hence it was bad policy to fling stones while he lived in a glass-house himself. A similar train of thought wound its way slowly through Sir Charles's brain. From his point of view Gervase had played the fool again and again, though he saw now that the waiting policy he had advocated was a huge mistake. So while he was inclined to throw the principal share of blame on to Gervase's shoulders, he was bound to take a share himself.
"I suppose we may conclude," Gervase said, at length, in a lugubrious tone, "that the game is up."
"I'm afraid it is," Sir Charles answered, with suppressed emotion.
"It's a beastly shame, for I've been counting on her fortune for years past."
"It's an awful miss. Her fortune would have set the Tregonys on their feet."
"It's no use trying to get her back, I suppose?"