"All but the reason for it," I said, "and I won't ask that."
"I won't make any protestations or apologies," he added very deliberately. "I think you trust us. And I prove that I trust you more than you know, in telling you as much as I have."
I suppose that a more sensible man in my place would have done very differently. On his own confession, Mr. Tabor was telling me only a part of the truth; accident and warning had combined to make me suspicious of him; and I knew by my own experience how plausibly he could lie. But whether it was his age, or his deference, or the fact that he was Lady's father, all the Don Quixote in me came suddenly to the surface.
"I'll do as you say, sir," I said. "Let me know when I can do anything more," and I held out my hand.
His own was moist and hot; and I noticed under the stronger light of the hall, that the veins in his temples were swollen and throbbing and that he moved listlessly, as though he had been under a great strain. Before I could think about it, Lady parted the curtains of the living-room.
"What is it?" she asked quickly. "Has anything happened?"
"Only that I am going to New York to see Carucci sail away," I answered, "and I don't know just when I shall be back." It was plain that Mr. Tabor had not meant me to say so much; but that was my own affair.
She followed me outside the front door. "That means that you are going away— I knew it must come to that." She was twisting nervously at her chain.
"One word from you, and I won't go."
She shook her head. "No, I want you to—good-by."