It was only when she had run on for some time that Basset’s air of detachment struck her. He listened, with his back to the fire, and his eyes bent on the floor, but he did not speak until she had told her story, and expressed her misgivings.
When he did, “I am not surprised,” he said. “I’ve suspected this for some time. But I don’t know that anything can be done.”
“Do you mean that—you would do nothing?”
“The truth is,” he answered, “Toft is pretty far in his master’s confidence. And what he does not know he wishes to know. When he knows it, he will find it a mare’s nest. The truth—as I see it at any rate—is that your uncle is possessed by a craze. He wants me to help him in it. I cannot. I have told him so, firmly and finally, to-day. Well, I suspect that he will now turn to Toft. I hope not, but he may, and if we report the man’s misconduct, it will only precipitate matters and hasten an understanding. That is the position, and if I were you, I should let the matter rest.”
“You mean that?” she exclaimed.
“I do.”
“But—but I have spoken to Toft!” Her eyes were bright with anger.
He kept his on the floor. It was only by maintaining the distance between them that he could hope to hide what he felt. “Still I would let him be,” he repeated. “I do not think that Toft is dangerous. He has surprised one half of a secret, and he wishes to learn the other half. That is all.”
“And I am to take no notice?”
“I believe that will be your wisest course.”