“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”
She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.
“No, I haven’t told Cecil or anyone,” she remarked, when she returned. “I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”
Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed.
“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”
“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”
Miss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”
Lucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cabdriver ever get hold of Cecil?”
“We must think of every possibility.”
“Oh, it’s all right.”
“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”