Railsford had not much difficulty after his talk with Arthur last night in guessing where this evidence was likely to be, and whence it proceeded. If that was the whole of the trouble he had to face, he could have afforded to laugh with monsieur. But the doctor’s question still rang in his ears. That, he could not get round or avoid.
“Bickers no doubt believes he is right,” said he, “but, as you say, monsieur, he is absurd—I wish he had been allowed to say what he wanted at the last meeting, when I wasn’t there.”
“But, mon ami, it would be unfair. Let him say it to your face, and you stand up and say to him to his face, it is one—what you call it, one very big lie.”
“Well, I will do my best,” said Railsford, smiling. “It is a wretched business altogether.”
“It is strange it is a secret still. I have my thoughts often, friend Railsford. I sometimes think of this boy, and sometimes of that boy; I have even said to myself, Why do we look only in Meester Railsford’s house? Why could it not be—for I see boys of all the houses—why could it not be perhaps one of Meester Beekaire’s own boys? They hate him—I wish Branscombe would come back. I think if he did, I would ask him.”
Railsford shifted his chair uneasily, and suddenly changed the conversation.
“How are the little girls?” asked he.
Poor monsieur! It was easy to turn him from any subject by a question like this. His eyes glistened at the mere mention of their names, and as he sat there and talked about them, with their portraits lying on the breakfast-table before him, Mr Bickers, Branscombe, even Railsford himself vanished out of sight, and his world held nothing but just those three little absent girls of his far away in his beloved France.
Railsford was tempted more than once during the day to absent himself boldly from the masters’ meeting in the evening, and allow matters to take whatever course they chose in his absence.
“After all,” he said to himself, “the fatal question will be put sooner or later, and then I must go down.”