“Why did you not tell me this on my return, when we saw her at the theatre, together? You knew all about it then, and you also knew how anxious I was.”
“True, but you did not broach the subject, and as soon as we caught sight of her you seemed fascinated, leaving me almost at once, so that I had no chance.”
“But there were plenty of occasions afterwards,” I contended impatiently.
Bob did not seem perturbed in the least. He merely lit another cigarette, as he replied,—
“Whenever I saw you afterwards you were so distant and uncommunicative that it appeared as if you knew far more than you apparently did. As you were still interested in her and her movements it was not my place to take the initiative.”
“And even if you had,” I rejoined, speaking rather warmly, for my disappointment was galling, “it would not have greatly mattered; you don’t seem to know a great deal, after all. It does not make very much difference.”
“Look here, Burgoyne, it is no use attempting to hide your thoughts from me in this matter. It appears as if you wish me to think you are sorry I know so little. Perhaps you are secretly glad that such is the case, eh? It would be awkward for some of your wife’s relations to find that photograph in your pocket, under these circumstances—what is your opinion? Those hot-blooded counts are very jealous relatives, I believe, and—”
“By Heaven! you wrong me there, Bob,” I retorted, touched to the quick by the sneer. “In spite of all Vera’s treachery—in spite of our quarrels, I have never, for an instant been untrue to her—never!”
“Very well,” was his cool reply, “let us admit that. Can you, however, honestly explain your confusion—to say nothing of Rivers’ amazement—when it was produced?”
This direct question nonplussed me entirely. To explain all the facts without exposing Vera—which I was determined not to do—at first appeared a sheer impossibility. Bob watched my vain endeavours to think it out with clearness for several minutes.