Part 19 (1/2)
”I won't sit down. How can I sit down when you have something to tell me? I can always listen best when I am standing.”
Putting his hands behind his back, Mr. Franklyn a.s.sumed what he possibly intended to be an air of parental authority.
”See here, Miss Strong. You can, if you choose, be as sensible a young woman as I should care to see. If you so choose now, well and good.
But I tell you plainly that on your showing the slightest symptom of hysterics my lips will be closed, and you will not get another word out of me.”
If by his attempting to play the part of heavy father he had supposed that Miss Strong would immediately be brought into a state of subjection, he had seldom made a greater error. So far from having cowed her, he seemed to have fired all the blood in her veins. She drew herself up until she had increased her stature by at least an inch, and she addressed the man of law in a strain in which he probably had never been addressed before.
”How dare you dictate how I am to receive any sc.r.a.ps of information which you may condescend to dole out to me! You forget yourself. Cyril is to be my husband; you pretend to be his friend. If it is anything but pretence, and you are a gentlemen, and a man of honour, you will see that it is your duty to withhold no tidings of my promised husband from his future wife. How I choose to receive those tidings is my affair, not yours.”
Certainly the lady's slightly illogical indignation made her look supremely lovely. Mr. Franklyn recognised this fact with a sensation which was both novel and curious. Even in that moment of perturbation, he told himself that it would never be his fate to have such a beautiful creature breathing burning words for love of him. While he wondered what to answer, Miss Wentworth interposed, rising from her chair to do so.
”Daisy is quite right, Mr. Franklyn. Don't play the game which the cat plays with the mouse by making lumbering attempts to, what is called, break it gently. If you have bad news, tell it out like a man! You will find that the feminine is not necessarily far behind the masculine animal in fibre.”
Mr. Franklyn looked from one young woman to the other, and felt himself ill-used. He had known them both for quite a tale of years; and yet he felt, somehow, as if he were becoming really acquainted with them for the first time now.
”You misjudge me, Miss Strong, and you, Miss Wentworth, too. The difficulty which I feel is how to tell you, as we lawyers say, without prejudice, exactly what there is to tell. As I said, the situation is such an odd one. I must begin by asking you a question. Has either of you heard of the affair of the robbery of the d.u.c.h.ess of Datchet's diamonds?”
”The affair of the robbery of the d.u.c.h.ess of Datchet's diamonds?”
Miss Strong repeated his words, pa.s.sing her hand over her eyes, as if she did not understand. Miss Wentworth, however, made it quickly plain that she did.
”I have; and so of course has Daisy. What of it?”
”This. An addle-headed detective, named John Ireland, has got hold of a wild idea that Cyril knows something about it.”
Miss Wentworth gave utterance to what sounded like a half-stifled exclamation.
”I guessed as much! What an extraordinary thing! I had been reading about it just before Mr. Paxton came in last night, and when he began talking in a mysterious way about his having made a quarter of a million at a single coup--precisely the amount at which the diamonds were valued--it set me thinking. I suppose I was a fool.”
For Miss Wentworth's quickness in guessing his meaning Mr. Franklyn had been unprepared. If she, inspired solely by the evidence of her own intuitions, had suspected Mr. Paxton, what sort of a case might not Mr. Ireland have against him? But Miss Strong's sense of perception was, apparently, not so keen. She looked at her companions as a person might look who is groping for the key of a riddle.
”I daresay I am stupid. I did read something about some diamonds being stolen. But--what has that to do with Cyril?”
Mr. Franklyn glanced at Miss Wentworth as if he thought that she might answer. But she refrained. He had to speak.
”In all probability the whole affair is a blunder of Ireland's.”
”Ireland? Who is Ireland?”
”John Ireland is a Scotland Yard detective, and, like all such gentry, quick to jump at erroneous conclusions.”
They saw that Miss Strong made a little convulsive movement with her hands. She clenched her fists. She spoke in a low, clear, even tone of voice.
”I see. And does John Ireland think that Cyril Paxton stole the Datchet diamonds?”
”I fancy that he hardly goes as far as that. From what I was able to gather, he merely suspects him of being acquainted with their present whereabouts.”
Although Miss Strong did not raise her voice, it rang with scorn.
”I see. He merely suspects him of that. What self-restraint he shows!