"But I shall want a
fair hearing, too--afterwards."
A faint smile flickered across Cheveril's face.
"I shall want to listen to you," he said. "The confession is this: Last
night I went down to the parade to smoke. It was very dark. I don't know
exactly what attracted me. I came upon two people saying good-bye on the
beach. One of them--a woman--was crying."
He paused momentarily. The girl's face had frozen into set lines of
composure. It looked like a marble mask. Her eyes met his with an
assumption of indifference that scarcely veiled the desperate defiance
behind.
"When does the confession begin?" she asked him, with a faint laugh that
sounded tragic in spite of her.
He leaned forward, scrutinising her with a wisdom that seemed to pierce
every barrier of conventionality and search her very soul.
"It begins now," he said. "She came up on to the parade immediately
after, and I waited under a lamp to get a glimpse of her. I saw her
face, Miss Harford. I knew her instantly." The girl's eyes flickered a
little, and she bit her lip. She was about to speak, but he stopped her
with sudden authority. "No, don't answer!" he said. "Hear me out. I
waited till she was gone, and then I joined the young fellow on the
beach. He was in the mood for a sympathetic listener, and I drew him
out. He told me practically everything--how he himself was going to
India and had to leave the girl behind, how her people disapproved of
him, and how she was being worked upon by means little short of
persecution to induce her to marry an outsider on the wrong side of
forty, with nothing to recommend him but the size of his banking
account.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224