"Well," said Philip looking away, "it's a tale of a candlestick."
"A candlestick!"
"And a hidden paper."
"Yes?"
Ronador seemed about to speak, thought better of it and closed his lips
in a tense white line of sullenness.
Philip glanced keenly at him, and his own mouth grew a little sterner.
"Excellency," he said to Ronador, "that you may not feel impelled again
to violence in the suppression of this curious fragment of family
history, let me warn you that the story has been entrusted in full to
Father Joda, who knew and loved your cousin. Any spectacular
irrationality that you may hereafter develop in connection with Miss
Westfall, will lead to its disclosure. He is pledged to that in
writing."
The color died out of Ronador's face. The fire, roused by the specter
he had fought this many a day, burned itself quite to ashes and left
him cold and sullen. He had played and lost. And he was an older and
quieter man for the losing. Whatever else lay at the bottom of his
contradictory maze of dark moods and passions, he had courage and the
curse of conscience. There were black memories struggling now within
him.
Tregar moved quietly to Ronador's side, an act of ready loyalty not
without dignity in the eyes of Philip.
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