“I will not imply any more then. I tell you in plain words that it was you who asked Frank for change for the note and got it. You may have forgotten, but he has not.”
“And who has been making inquiries?” asked Cyril, with stiff pale lips.
“Never mind. It is really no affair of mine. If it is anything to you, you will hear all in good time. I think I must be going now. I have a number of things to do. Good-bye, Mr. Cossart. I will tell them to bring your horse to the door.”
She turned and left him—left him standing like a man half-stunned. That was a pretty outcome of his day’s wooing. Fear and rage wrestled for mastery in his heart as he rode away from the house, resolved never to cross that threshold again.
He had been so confident that all the trouble had blown over by this time, that nobody, not even Oscar, had been much the worse, that no strict inquiry had ever been set on foot. His face was still pale, and he felt shaken and nervous as he walked from the livery stables home. He was half afraid to enter the drawing-room lest his appearance should excite comment.
But as it happened there was another excitement on foot which quite shielded him from notice. Voices were speaking in rapid eager tones.
“What can it be? How very strange!”
“Alone too, or she would not want meeting.”
“Oscar must go, of course, but it is all very odd.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Cyril, in as easy a tone as he could master.