The grim setting of Clementina’s lips relaxed.
“I think you’re becoming more human. And, talking of humanity—there’s a question that must be cleared up between us, before we settle down to this partnership. Are you intending to keep up your diabolical attitude towards Tommy Burgrave?”
The question had been burning her tongue for over twenty-four hours; from the moment that he had appeared in the vestibule the day before, after his sleep, and seemed to have recovered from the extraordinary nervous collapse which had aroused her pity. With considerable self-restraint she had awaited her opportunity. Now it had come—and when an opportunity came to Clementina, she did not go by four roads to take it. Quixtus laid down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair. Knowing her attachment to the boy, he had expected some reference to his repudiation. But the direct question disconcerted him. Should he have to render equally sudden account of all the fantastic iniquities of the past? Then something he had not thought of before entered his amazed head. He had never countermanded the order whereby the allowance was automatically transferred from his own banking account to Tommy’s. He had intended to write the letter after having destroyed the will, but his reflections on plagiarism in wickedness which had led to the preservation of that document, had also caused him to forget the other matter entirely. And he had not thought of it from that day to this.
“As a matter of fact,” said he, looking at his plate, “I have not disinherited Tommy; I have not discontinued his allowance, and I have placed a very large sum of money to his credit at the bank.”
Clementina knitted her brows and stared at him. The man was a greater puzzle than ever. Was he lying? If Tommy had found himself in opulence, he would have told her. Tommy was veracity incarnate.
“The boy hasn’t a penny to his name—nothing except his mother’s fifty pounds a year.”
He met her black, keen eyes steadily.
“I am telling you the facts. He can’t have inquired about his bank balance recently.” He passed his hand across his forehead, as realisation of the past strange period came to him. “I suppose he can’t have done so, as he has never written to acknowledge the—the large amount of money.”
The man was telling the truth. It was mystifying.
“Then why in the name of Bedlam did you play the fool with him like that?”