The master of Saltire squared his shoulders and looked Maltravers over with his keen, gray eyes. There was much logic in the soldier’s argument, and John Strong, even in his most obstinate mood, was not a man who was blind to prudence.
“There is something in all this,” he observed, “but—”
“Well, sir?”
“I shall stand out for two things.”
“State them, Mr. Strong.”
“That you leave the neighborhood within a week.”
Maltravers’ black brows lifted a moment, but he smiled as before and seemed perfectly agreeable.
“A small matter,” he said. “I was preparing to leave, intending to travel abroad. There will be no difficulty in this.”
John Strong could not refrain from blurting out his thoughts.
“And Ophelia Gusset?”