“And what article and section of your pandect could Mr. Cosgrove learn from?”
Oxford steadied himself, and over his face came a phase of profundity. He gave me a knowing look, and his voice sank to a sibylline tone: “Never take another man’s woman—never meddle with ’em!”
“But a woman unprotected, eh?” I felt like asking, yet refrained, for someone else was nighing us, one at whose approach Oxford appeared to feel distressed. The fancy man evaporated into the afternoon sunlight down the lawn, and Maryvale, who I think had been standing alone in the centre of the room, was at my elbow.
That changed look was stronger than ever about him; there seemed a gaunt and haggard spirit in his eyes.
“Mr. Bannerlee, you must have heard terrible tales to-day.”
“Surely none that deserve such a violent—”
“Oh, yes, yes—some dreadful things have happened in this countryside. Cosgrove tells me that this morning he related to you the fall of the old castle, and in there”—he gestured toward the dining-hall—“what awful things you must have listened to.”
I smothered a laugh that was half-breathless, for there was real distress in him. “Mr. Maryvale, you exaggerate—”
He laid his hand heavily on my arm, and his fingers took hold. “But there is one story more terrible still!”
“Indeed, indeed?”