She didn't understand it all. But since Tremayne was so insistent she supposed there must be something in his point of view. She had been brought up in the belief that Ned Tremayne was common sense incarnate; and although she often doubted it - as you may doubt the dogmas of a religion in which you have been bred - yet she never openly rebelled against that inculcated faith. Above all she wanted to cry. She knew that it would be very good for her. She had often found a singular relief in tears when vexed by things beyond her understanding. But she had to think of that flock of gallants in the ballroom waiting to pay court to her and of her duty towards them of preserving her beauty unimpaired by the ravages of a vented sorrow.
Tremayne sat down beside her. "So now that we understand each other on that score, let us consider ways and means to dispose of ****."
At once she was uplifted and became all eagerness.
"Yes, Yes. You will help me, Ned?"
"You can depend upon me to do all in human power."
He thought rapidly, and gave voice to some of his thoughts. "If I could I would take him to my lodgings at Alcantara. But Carruthers knows him and would see him there. So that is out of the question.
Then again it is dangerous to move him about. At any moment he might be seen and recognised."
"Hardly recognised," she said. "His beard disguises him, and his dress - " She shuddered at the very thought of the figure he had cut, he, the jaunty, dandy Richard Butler.
"That is something, of course," he agreed. And then asked: "How long do you think that you could keep him hidden?"
"I don't know. You see, there's Bridget. She is the only danger, as she has charge of my dressing-room."
"It may be desperate, but - Can you trust her?"
"Oh, I am sure I can. She is devoted to me; she would do anything - "
"She must be bought as well. Devotion and gain when linked together will form an unbreakable bond. Don't let us be stingy, Una. Take her into your confidence boldly, and promise her a hundred guineas for her silence - payable on the day that **** leaves the country."
"But how are we to get him out of the country?"
"I think I know a way. I can depend on Marcus Glennie. I may tell him the whole truth and the identity of our man, or I may not. I must think about that. But, whatever I decide, I am sure I can induce Glennie to take our fugitive home in the Telemachus and land him safely somewhere in Ireland, where he will have to lose himself for awhile. Perhaps for Glennie's sake it will be safer not to disclose ****'s identity. Then if there should be trouble later, Glennie, having known nothing of the real facts, will not be held responsible. I will talk to him to-night."
"Do you think he will consent?" she asked in strained anxiety - anxiety to have her anxieties dispelled.
"I am sure he will. I can almost pledge my word on it. Marcus would do anything to serve me. Oh, set your mind at rest. Consider the thing done. Keep **** safely hidden for a week or so until the Telemachus is ready to sail - he mustn't go on board until the last moment, for several reasons - and I will see to the rest."
Under that confident promise her troubles fell from her, as lightly as they ever did.
"You are very good to me, Ned. Forgive me what I said just now.
And I think I understand about Terence - poor dear old Terence."
"Of course you do." Moved to comfort her as he might have been moved to comfort a child, he flung his arm along the seat behind her, and patted her shoulder soothingly. "I knew you would understand. And not a word to Terence, not a word that could so much as awaken his suspicions. Remember that."
"Oh, I shall."
Fell a step upon the patch behind them crunching the gravel.
Captain Tremayne, his arm still along the back of the seat, and seeming to envelop her ladyship, looked over her shoulder. A tall figure was advancing briskly. He recognised it even in the gloom by its height and gait and swing for O'Moy's.
"Why, here is Terence," he said easily - so easily, with such frank and obvious honesty of welcome, that the anger in which O'Moy came wrapped fell from him on the instant, to be replaced by shame.
"I have been looking for you everywhere, my dear," he said to Una.
"Marshal Beresford is anxious to pay you his respects before he leaves, and you have been so hedged about by gallants all the evening that it's devil a chance he's had of approaching you."
There was a certain constraint in his voice, for a man may not recover instantly from such feelings as those which had fetched him hot-foot down that path at sight of those two figures sitting so close and intimate, the young man's arm so proprietorialy about the lady's shoulders - as it seemed.
Lady O'Moy sprang up at once, with a little silvery laugh that was singularly care-free; for had not Tremayne lifted the burden entirely from her shoulders?
"You should have married a dowd," she mocked him. "Then you'd have found her more easily accessible."
"Instead of finding her dallying in the moonlight with my secretary," he rallied back between good and ill humour. And he turned to Tremayne: "Damned indiscreet of you, Ned," he added more severely.
"Suppose you had been seen by any of the scandalmongering old wives of the garrison? A nice thing for Una and a nice thing for me, begad, to be made the subject of fly-blown talk over the tea-cups."
Tremayne accepted the rebuke in the friendly spirit in which it appeared to be conveyed. "Sorry, O'Moy," he said. "You're quite right. We should have thought of it. Everybody isn't to know what our relations are." And again he was so manifestly honest and so completely at his ease that it was impossible to harbour any thought of evil, and O'Moy felt again the glow of shame of suspicions so utterly unworthy and dishonouring.
