Part 21 (1/2)

Urquhart said nothing; his silence was expressive.

Peter stammered into speech incoherently.

”At least--at least--yes, I believe I did tell Peggy the story, months ago, in Venice--but I didn't say it was you. I merely said, if someone had done that ... what would she think? I wanted to know if she thought we ought to have found the old man's people and told them.”

”I see,” said Urquhart. ”And did she?”

”No. She thought it was all right.” Peter had known beforehand that Peggy would think it was all right; that was why he had asked her, to be rea.s.sured, to have the vague trouble in his mind quieted.

And she, apparently, had seen through his futile pretence, had known it was Urquhart he spoke of, needed rea.s.suring about (Peter didn't realise that even less shrewd observers than Peggy might easily know when it was Urquhart he spoke of) and had gone and told Hilary. And Hilary, in his need, had twisted it into this disgusting story, and had typed it and brought it down to Astleys to-night, with other twisted stories.

”I suppose the rest too,” said Urquhart, ”you related to your sister-in-law to see what she would think.”

Peter stammered, ”I don't think so. No, I don't believe anything else came from me. Did it, Hilary?”

Hilary shrugged his shoulders, and made no other answer.

”It really doesn't particularly matter,” said Urquhart, ”whether the informant was you or some other of my acquaintances. I daresay my gyp is responsible for the story of the actresses I brought down to the St.

Gabriel's dance; he knew about it at the time, I believe. I am not in the least ashamed of that either; the 'Berks.h.i.+re Press' is extremely welcome to it, if it can find s.p.a.ce for it.... Well, now, will you both stay the night with me, or must you get back? The last good train goes at 10.5, I think.”

Peter said, ”Come along, Hilary.”

Urquhart stood and watched them go.

As they turned away, he said, in his gentle, inexpressive voice, that hadn't been raised in anger once, ”Can I lend you any money, Peter?”

Peter shook his head, though he felt Hilary start.

”No, thank you. It is very good of you.... Good night.”

”Good night.”

Going out of the room, they came face to face with Lord Evelyn Urquhart coming in. He saw them; he stiffened a little, repressing a start; he stood elaborately aside to let them pa.s.s, bowing slightly.

Neither Margerison said anything. Hilary's bow was the stage copy of his own; Peter didn't look at him at all, but hurried by.

The servant let them out, and shut the hall door behind them.

Lord Evelyn said to his nephew in the library, swinging his eye-gla.s.s restlessly to and fro, ”Why do you let those people into your house, Denis? I thought we had done with them.”

”They came to call,” said Denis, who did not seem disposed to be communicative. ”I can't say why they chose this particular hour.”

Lord Evelyn paced up the room, restless, nervous, petulant.

”It's monstrous,” he said querulously. ”Perfectly monstrous. Shameless.

How dare they show their faces in this house?... I suppose they wanted something out of you, did they?”

Denis merely said, ”After all, Peter is my cousin by marriage, you must remember. And I have never broken with him.”

Lord Evelyn returned, ”The more shame to you. He's as great a swindler as his precious brother; they're a pair, you can't deny that.”

Denis didn't attempt to deny it; probably he was feeling a little tired of the Margerisons to-night.