“What did he say about Guy?” asked Mary softly.
“Only that he was quite happy and well. He did vouchsafe to volunteer the information that some great anarchist coup had failed.”
“Well, that was about as much as you could expect,” said Mary in her quiet, gentle tones. “He is not going to give information to everybody.”
“To everybody?” spluttered the Earl, in his most fiery mood. “Am I everybody? I have supported this Government through thick and thin. I have backed them up through everything. Why do they withhold their confidence from me, at this important moment?”
Lady Mary used all her finesse. She knew too well why Greatorex did not trust him. He was an open sieve. All news would filter through him in five minutes, at all his clubs, to the first acquaintance he met.
“You must not blame Greatorex, dear; he carries a very heavy burden. He dare not give an incautious confidence, drop a random word.”
“But why this reticence to me, of all people?” thundered Lord Saxham, in his most indignant tones. “Am I not the soul of discretion? Should I betray a confidence?”
Mary made no answer. She knew her father well. Privately he was the soul of honour. He would not betray a confidence wilfully. But he was loose of speech, and he was quite vain. He would drop a few hints, perhaps unconsciously, from which attentive listeners might gather much.
She let the stormy ebullition pass. Then she spoke.
“I wish we could hear some really authentic news of dear old Guy.”