Relief spread instantly upon Lord Ostermore's countenance. Clearly, he saw, here was pure coincidence, and nothing more. Indeed, what else should there have been? What was it that he had feared? He did not know. Still he accounted it an odd matter, and said so.
“What is odd?” inquired Mr. Caryll. “Does it happen that your lordship was acquainted at any time with that vanished family?”
“I was, sir--slightly acquainted--at one time with one or two of its members. 'Tis that that is odd. You see, sir, my name, too, happens to be Caryll.”
“True--yet I see nothing so oddly coincident in the matter, particularly if your acquaintance with these Malignys was but slight.”
“Indeed, you are right. You are right. There is no such great coincidence, when all is said. The name reminded me of a--a folly of my youth. 'Twas that that made impression.”
“A folly?” quoth Mr. Caryll, his eyebrows raised.
“Ay, a folly--a folly that went near undoing me, for had it come to my father's ears, he had broke me without mercy. He was a hard man, my father; a puritan in his ideas.”
“A greater than your lordship?” inquired Mr. Caryll blandly, masking the rage that seethed in him.
His lordship laughed. “Ye're a wag, Mr. Caryll--a damned wag!” Then reverting to the matter that was uppermost in his mind. “'Tis a fact, though--'pon honor. My father would ha' broke me. Luckily she died.”
“Who died?” asked Mr. Caryll, with a show of interest.
“The girl. Did I not tell you there was a girl? 'Twas she was the folly--Antoinette de Maligny. But she died--most opportunely, egad! 'Twas a very damned mercy that she did. It--cut the--the--what d'ye call it--knot?”
“The Gordian knot?” suggested Mr. Caryll.
“Ay--the Gordian knot. Had she lived and had my father smoked the affair--Gad! he would ha' broke me; he would so!” he repeated, and emptied his glass.
Mr. Caryll, white to the lips, sat very still a moment. Then he did a curious thing; did it with a curious suddenness. He took a knife from the table, and hacked off the lowest button from his coat. This he pushed across the board to his father.
“To turn to other matters,” said he; “there is the letter you were expecting from abroad.”
“Eh? What?” Lord Ostermore took up the button. It was of silk, interwoven with gold thread. He turned it over in his fingers, looking at it with a heavy eye, and then at his guest. “Eh? Letter?” he muttered, puzzled.