Gwen had never looked better than she did at that moment, with the unwonted fire of real indignation lighting up her face, and Lewis Gordon felt vexed that it awoke no thrill in him. Was he really allowing Rose Tweedie's open mistrust to bias him? The idea made his reply more gentle than it might otherwise have been.
'Perhaps you are right to be angry with me,' he said quietly. 'I beg your pardon, if I have hurt you; but, indeed, it seemed best to me at the time. Perhaps, as you say, it would have been better to wait a while; until, for instance, I can consult with Fitzgerald. I wired him today to come up on three days' urgent private business. He knows a lot.'
Gwen gave an odd sort of laugh, not unlike a sob, and her face softened.
'I'm glad he is coming,' she cried passionately; 'very glad. He always understands, and he knows.' Yes! he knew and trusted her--he would stand by her even if he knew that one fatal mistake. Whereas Lewis would treat her as a Magdalen; as if she, Gwen Boynton, were a fit subject for a penitentiary!
'Yes,' she repeated slowly, 'I am glad he is coming. You did the right thing there, Lewis, at any rate.'
So, with this small consolation, he had to make his way back to give in his report to the girl who had told him that she loved him. Another delicate task, and he felt himself detestably awkward over it, the more so because Rose herself met him as if nothing unusual had occurred.
He told her briefly that there was none. He had had three versions of truth--her own, Chândni's, and Mrs. Boynton's--and there seemed nothing to be done save wait for Dan's arrival. He might be able to throw some light on the subject--he was the last person, at any rate, who was likely to do so.
'You forget the girl--the girl of the portrait, I mean,' suggested Rose quickly. Lewis frowned.
'She disappeared, they say, just before we reached Hodinuggur. I should like, by the way, to see the picture, if you don't mind.'
He stood looking at it in silence for some time.
'And that, you say, was the face of your dream?' he asked at last.
'The face, the dress, the pot clasped so to her breast. I seem to grow more sure of it every hour. And I am certain now it was she who said, "I am Azîzan."'