"In fighting a woman like Lady Clinton one cannot choose one's weapons; one is bound to take the first that comes to hand. If ever a lie was excusable, it is surely in a case like this, where nothing less than the existence of a helpless old man is at stake."
"I would do more, far more than that to save the life of Sir Everard Clinton!" said Dacia, with a thrill in her rich, low tones to which some responsive chord in Burgo vibrated. "But here comes Mrs. Sprowle," she continued, "to tell me that her precious son is about waking up, and that I must not stay a minute longer. I will write to my friend before I sleep, and will post the letter myself before breakfast. The cord and the files I will make into a parcel and send you by Mrs. Sprowle in the course of to-morrow. And now my lamp, if you please, Mr. Brabazon."
"Will you not bring the parcel yourself, Miss Roylance?" asked Burgo, and his voice had a supplicatory ring in it, or so it seemed to Dacia.
Her sensitive under-lip trembled for a moment. "Perhaps," she said with a smile such as she had not bestowed on Burgo before, and the radiance of which struck him dumb. "But it is never wise to promise more than one is sure of being able to perform."
As she put forth her hand for the lamp, Burgo took it in one of his, and bending over it, touched it with his lips. "In any case, God bless you!" he fervently exclaimed.
Her only answer, as she turned from him, was the delicate flush which suffused alike her throat and face.
He watched her with lingering eyes as she went slowly and carefully down the stairway, the protuberance on her left shoulder throwing a clearly-defined shadow on the whitewashed wall; nor did he turn away till the last faint tap-tap of her crutch had died in the distance.
"What a pity, what an unspeakable pity it is," he said wit a sigh, "that a creature so incomparable in every other respect should be the victim of a deformity which nothing can remedy or obviate!"