“Quarrelled?”
“Yes. Do you suppose he would go away like this for any other reason? Won’t you tell me what it is about?”
“Roger and I have agreed to differ on a certain point. Miss Oliphant. We have not quarrelled?”
“You cannot trust me, I see, or you would tell me what the trouble is.”
“I trust you completely, Miss Oliphant. I will gladly tell you.”
Five minutes ago wild horses would not have extorted the confession from him. But somehow or other, as he looked at her standing there, he could not help himself.
“Roger has got an impression that his elder brother is still living, and is to be found; and, if found, that he ought to be made possessor of Maxfield. I am unable to sympathise in what I look upon as an unprofitable quest. That is the whole story.”
“Why cannot you back him up, Mr Armstrong?”
“I believe his fancy is utterly groundless; besides which, if the person he believes to be the missing brother is really Roger Ingleton, to discover him would mean disgrace to Maxfield, and an injury to the name of Ingleton.”
“What! Mr Armstrong, do you mean to say—”