John came forward in his lumbering way.
“I know that, Walter.”
For a minute or two no one spoke. The three stood stock-still, their hearts thumping. Outside, the rain fell pitilessly on the flags of the terrace, and the waning storm flashed and growled. John’s burning eyes looked at Herold beneath heavy, knitted brows. At last he said:
“You love Stella. You have loved her always. You never told me.”
“That is not so,” said Herold. “You have found us in a foolishly false position. A thunder-storm is an emotional piece of business. My old intimacy with Stella has its privileges. I’ll leave you. Stella will speak for herself.”
John stretched out a detaining arm. “No, my friend; stay. We three must have a talk together. It was bound to come sooner or later. Let it be now.”
He spoke quietly, with dignity and authority.
“There is nothing for us to talk about,” said Herold,—Stellamaris stood clutching the back of an arm-chair, and looking from one man to the other,—“the words you overheard ought to tell you that. And in answer to your question, I can say that I am quite sure.”
“You lie,” said John, quietly. “You lie out of the loyalty of your heart—” he raised his great hand to check the other’s outburst—“God Almighty in Heaven knows I’m not accusing you. If ever man had deep and devoted and unselfish love from another, I’ve had it from you. And I have it still. It’s a matter not of reproach, but of reparation.”
“Don’t you think,” said Herold, “we might continue this extraordinary conversation in the library—by ourselves?”