“You really propose, Monsieur des Sablières, to call a witness to prove that the lady to whom I have the honour to be engaged is telling a lie? I thought you claimed to be a gentleman!”
“If I call him,” retorted Raoul, throwing back his head, “it will certainly not be against Miss Forrest.”
“You mean, I presume, that it will be against me, then. It is the same thing. I speak for Miss Forrest, and Mr. Bannister is satisfied that I do. Produce your witness!”
“The whole question is,” said Raoul in a low voice, eyeing him, “whether you do speak for Miss Forrest.”
Sir Francis surveyed him for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders. “Then we will leave Miss Forrest out of the matter into which she has so improperly been dragged. Who is this witness whose word Mr. Bannister will take before mine?”
Raoul studied the sunlit carpet once more. If he called the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne the whole affair would come into the light of day, would have to be elucidated somehow. It would clear him, certainly. But what would be the result? Perhaps merely to show that though Miss Forrest had seen fit to hide her meeting with him by means of a fib—and even, just possibly, had done so to shield him from the effects of her betrothed’s jealousy—he, of all men, had been unchivalrous enough to drag the cloak off her shoulders. And even if the testimony proved it was Sir Francis who was doing the lying, yet, in the esclandre that must ensue, all Wanfield would know that he and Miss Forrest had been seen, not just conversing openly on the bridge, but some way down the stream, conveniently remote from the public gaze and by no means on the route to Mulholland Park. For though Raoul felt, as he had felt at the time, that the Comte was too well-bred and too discreet to blazon abroad his knowledge of that fact, once his testimony to it was demanded, it would not be much of a step to the discovery of an arranged meeting, of manœuvres on Miss Forrest’s part. . . . He could not bring that upon her. No, his feet were entangled every way.
“Well, who is it?” demanded Mr. Bannister with some impatience.
“On reflection, I shall not call him,” said Raoul slowly.
“You are well advised,” observed Sir Francis. “English law—you may not know it—does not smile on perjury. And now, having disposed of your fictitious companion in Fawley Copse; let us—let Mr. Bannister, that is—hear what you were doing there with your real one.”
Raoul gave an impatient movement and turned his back on him. “I have nothing more to say. Mr. Bannister, cannot this farce come to an end? Even though I am not believed when I tell the truth, I am not going to invent falsehoods to stand a better chance of pleasing Sir Francis Mulholland.”
“But, des Sablières,” said his shepherd very gravely, “on Sir Francis’s showing, you have already invented them! This is not a farce; I have every right to ask you for the real explanation of your presence in the copse, out of bounds.”
“I have already given it to you!” said Raoul with suppressed passion.
“As Monsieur des Sablières suggests, this farce had better end,” put in Sir Francis. “I will give you the real explanation, Mr. Bannister. He was there to meet an escape agent, and I can tell you who the agent was—Zachary Miller, the pedlar.”
Raoul laughed. There seemed nothing else to do. “Why not suggest that I went to meet the Emperor himself in Fawley Copse?”
“That is only a suspicion of yours, Sir Francis,” said the Agent, shaking his head. “You cannot prove it, I think.”
“Not yet perhaps. But I may be able to. Zachary Miller was seen near Four Oaks Farm at three o’clock yesterday afternoon, talking to two Frenchmen, and he can give no satisfactory account of his movements between that time and half-past four. And, as you know, he rests under very strong suspicion of being concerned in the escape traffic in these parts, though nothing can be proved against him.”
“Two points that cannot be proved,” observed Raoul mockingly. “You are not altogether lucky, Sir Francis, in your efforts to get rid of me!” He was becoming reckless.
“What do you mean, Sir?” demanded his enemy, turning on him angrily. “Do you suggest that I am allowing personal motives to weigh with me in this matter?”
“I don’t suggest, I know!” retorted Raoul. “The only question in my mind is to what lengths you have gone in that direction. Of that your own conscience is the best judge.”
“Will you allow me to speak to Monsieur des Sablières alone?” asked Mr. Bannister, intervening rather hastily at this point. “I think it would be better.”
Sir Francis immediately took up his hat and riding whip. “I will withdraw altogether, my dear Bannister. My unpleasant task is done. I have shown you that Monsieur des Sablières’ alleged reason for going out of bounds is a pure invention, and a clumsy one at that, besides not reflecting much credit upon him, and in my capacity as a justice of the peace I warn you of what I am convinced was his real reason. However, as I understand it, the mere fact of broken parole is in itself sufficient. . . . I have every confidence that you will do your duty. Good morning.” And the door shut behind him.
“Well, are you going to do your duty, as Sir Francis orders you?” enquired Raoul after a moment. But Mr. Bannister was walking up and down with bent head and did not answer. “Why did you say you wanted to see me alone?” went on the young man. “I have nothing different to tell you, nor, since Sir Francis has poisoned your mind against me, would you believe it if I had.”
Mr. Bannister stopped his pacing. “My mind is not poisoned against you, des Sablières. I am more grieved and disappointed over this affair than I can say. But how can I take your word against Sir Francis Mulholland’s? If you had only been frank with me——”
“I have been—to very little purpose!”
“How can you call that being frank,” asked the Agent reproachfully, “to tell me an impossible and yet specious story about a lady and a tramp which the very next day is unmasked as a falsehood? If you had said straightforwardly that you had yielded to a not unnatural temptation to go out of bounds for a few moments I might have stretched a point and let you off with a fine, but the motive which requires so preposterous a tale to cover it. . . . He paused.
“Yes, I see,” said Raoul bitterly. “Next time that I am in a difficulty I must remember that the one thing not to do is to tell the truth. But I suppose your kind intention is to deliver me now from the possibility of getting into any more such difficulties?”
And, though he threw out this feeler with a certain airy defiance, his heart was beating pretty rapidly.
“I cannot help myself,” returned the Agent shortly. “You have broken your parole and will not tell me why. The interpretation which Sir Francis puts upon your action cannot be proved, but, since you will give me no other that satisfies me, it always remains a possibility. I should not, therefore, be worthy of the trust which I hold if I let you continue at large. In accordance with the standing orders which I have received from the Transport Office I must send you to Norman Cross depot, if they have room to receive you, which I shall ascertain without delay—if not, to Stapleton Prison or elsewhere. Meanwhile,” he approached the bellrope on the wall, “I am afraid that I must send you to the lock-up here.”
Raoul had turned a little pale, but at that the colour swept over his face again. “Could I not go back to my lodgings till you—till you hear from Norman Cross?” he asked. “I would