After that perhaps prophetic sentence the silence seemed to sway and swirl. Alberta asked in a small voice, “Is that all?”
“No, there is another paragraph, equally concise: ‘I have acquainted Mr. Oxford sufficiently with the particulars, and I do not see that there is any need for you and me to discuss the situation. It remains simply for you to take what measures you consider best, or to accept the inevitable. You cannot stem the tide.’ ”
About twenty-four startled eyes suddenly turned full glare on Charlton Oxford.
“No signature?” asked Aire.
“Yes, the message is signed ‘Lancelot,’ and a postscript adds, ‘These notes and their method of delivery are an unnecessary risk. I suggest that your answer be the last, since on my side the question is past debate.’ That is the end.”
Oxford sat between Miss Mertoun and Lib Dale, on my side of the board. Lib promptly struck a finger into his waistcoat, so that he squirmed, while the English girl looked at her cousin with wide wonder, or a clever imitation of it, in her fine black eyes.
“What in thunder have you got to do with this mess?” demanded Pendleton.
“Yes, Oxey, old sport,” appended Lib, “what’s all this secret stuff? Are you a great man and we didn’t know it all the time?”
But Oxford, his eyes very uncomfortable, made no answer than to shrug his modish shoulders, and Salt came to his rescue.
“Don’t press Mr. Oxford, if you please. He is bound in confidence to me.”