“Come in here,” said Allan. “We’ll go up to breakfast this way.” He led Midwinter through the open French window into his own sitting-room. The wind blew toward that side of the house, and the rain followed them in. Midwinter, who was last, turned and closed the window.
Allan was too eager for the answer which the weather had interrupted to wait for it till they reached the breakfast-room. He stopped close at the window, and added two more to his string of questions.
“How can you possibly have heard about me and Miss Gwilt?” he asked. “Who told you?”
“Miss Gwilt herself,” replied Midwinter, gravely.
Allan’s manner changed the moment the governess’s name passed his friend’s lips.
“I wish you had heard my story first,” he said. “Where did you meet with Miss Gwilt?”
There was a momentary pause. They both stood still at the window, absorbed in the interest of the moment. They both forgot that their contemplated place of shelter from the rain had been the breakfast-room upstairs.
“Before I answer your question,” said Midwinter, a little constrainedly, “I want to ask you something, Allan, on my side. Is it really true that you are in some way concerned in Miss Gwilt’s leaving Major Milroy’s service?”
There was another pause. The disturbance which had begun to appear in Allan’s manner palpably increased.
“It’s rather a long story,” he began. “I have been taken in, Midwinter. I’ve been imposed on by a person, who—I can’t help saying it—who cheated me into promising what I oughtn’t to have promised, and doing what I had better not have done. It isn’t breaking my promise to tell you. I can trust in your discretion, can’t I? You will never say a word, will you?”