“And you actually come to me with a lame, absurd tale that the only man who can clear you is dead! The whole defence is too absurd,” he thundered. “You have sold your country’s honour and the lives of your fellow-men for Russian roubles. Go! Never let me see you again, except in a felon’s dock.”
“But surely I may be permitted to clear myself?” I cried.
“Your masters in St Petersburg will no doubt arrange for your future. In London we require your faithless services no longer,” the Earl answered, with intense bitterness. “Go!”
Chapter Six.
The Veil.
Leaving the Earl’s presence, I refused old Stanford’s invitation to take some refreshment, and, walking along the corridor on my way out, came face to face with Frayling, who was being conducted to the library.
“Going?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I answered, and passing on, engrossed in bitter thoughts that overwhelmed me, strode out into the park, wandering aimlessly across the grass to where a well-kept footpath wound away among the trees. Taking it, heedless of my destination, I walked on mechanically, regardless of the brilliant sunshine and the songs of the birds, thinking only of the unjust accusation against me, and of my inability to clear myself. I saw that the stigma upon me meant ruin, both social and financial. Branded as a spy, I should be spurned by Ella, sneered at by Mrs Laing, and avoided by Beck. Friends who had trusted me would no longer place any confidence in a man who had, according to their belief, sold his country into the hands of her enemies, while it was apparent from the Earl’s words that he had no further faith in my actions.