THE CHAMPION
With the possible exception of her ladyship, I do not think that there was much sleep that night at Monsanto for any of the four chief actors in this tragicomedy. Each had his own preoccupations.
Sylvia's we know. Mr. Butler found his leg troubling him again, and the pain of the reopened wound must have prevented him from sleeping even had his anxieties about his immediate future not sufficed to do so. As for Sir Terence, his was the most deplorable case of all. This man who had lived a life of simple and downright honesty in great things and in small, a man who had never stooped to the slightest prevarication, found himself suddenly launched upon the most horrible and infamous course of duplicity to encompass the ruin of another. The offence of that other against himself might be of the most foul and hideous, a piece of treachery that only treachery could adequately avenge; yet this consideration was not enough to appease the clamours of Sir Terence's self-respect.
In the end, however, the primary desire for vengeance and vengeance of the bitterest kind proved master of his mind. Captain Tremayne had been led by his villainy into a coil that should presently crush him, and Sir Terence promised himself an infinite balm for his outraged honour in the entertainment which the futile struggles of the victim should provide. With Captain Tremayne lay the cruel choice of submitting in tortured silence to his fate, or of turning craven and saving his miserable life by proclaiming himself a seducer and a betrayer. It should be interesting to observe how the captain would decide, and his punishment was certain whatever the decision that he took.
Sir Terence came to breakfast in the open, grey-faced and haggard, but miraculously composed for a man who had so little studied the art of concealing his emotions. Voice and glance were calm as he gave a good-morning to his wife and to Miss Armytage.
"What are you going to do about Ned?" was one of his wife's first questions.
It took him aback. He looked askance at her, marvelling at the steadiness with which she bore his glance, until it occurred to him that effrontery was an essential part of the equipment of all harlots.
"What am I going to do?" he echoed. "Why, nothing. The matter is out of my hands. I may be asked to give evidence; I may even be called to sit upon the court-martial that will try him. My evidence can hardly assist him. My conclusions will naturally be based upon the evidence that is laid before the court."
Her teaspoon rattled in her saucer. "I don't understand you, Terence. Ned has always been your best friend."
"He has certainly shared everything that was mine."
"And you know," she went on, "that he did not kill Samoval."
"Indeed?" His glance quickened a little. "How should I know that?"
"Well . . . I know it, anyway."
He seemed moved by that statement. He leaned forward with an odd eagerness, behind which there was something terrible that went unperceived by her.
"Why did you not say so before? How do you know? What do you know?"
"I am sure that he did not."
"Yes, yes. But what makes you so sure? Do you possess some knowledge that you have not revealed?"
He saw the colour slowly shrinking from her cheeks under his burning gaze. So she was not quite shameless then, after all.
There were limits to her effrontery.
"What knowledge should I possess?" she filtered.
"That is what I am asking."
She made a good recovery. "I possess the knowledge that you should possess yourself," she told him. "I know Ned for a man incapable of such a thing. I am ready to swear that he could not have done it."
"I see: evidence as to character." He sack back into his chair and thoughtfully stirred his chocolate. "It may weigh with the court.
But I am not the court, and my mere opinions can do nothing for Ned Tremayne."
Her ladyship looked at him wildly. "The court?" she cried. "Do you mean that I shall have to give evidence?"
"Naturally," he answered. "You will have to say what you saw."
"But - but I saw nothing."
"Something, I think."
"Yes; but nothing that can matter."
"Still the court will wish to hear it and perhaps to examine you upon it."
"Oh no, no!" In her alarm shy half rose, then sank again to her chair. "You must keep me out of this, Terence. I couldn't - I really couldn't,"
He laughed with an affectation of indulgence, masking something else.
"Why," he said, "you would not deprive Tremayne of any of the advantages to be derived from your testimony? Are you not ready to bear witness as to his character? To swear that from your knowledge of the man you are sure he could not have done such a thing? That he is the very soul of honour, a man incapable of anything base or treacherous or sly?"
And then at last Sylvia, who had been watching them, and seeking to apply to what she heard the wild expressions that Sir Terence had used to herself last night, broke into the conversation.
"Why do you apply these words to Captain Tremayne?" she asked.
He turned sharply to meet the opposition he detected in her. "I don't apply them. On the contrary, I say that, as Una knows, they are not applicable."
"Then you make an unnecessary statement, a statement that has nothing to do with the case. Captain Tremayne has been arrested for killing Count Samoval in a duel. A duel may be a violation of the law as recently enacted by Lord Wellington, but it is not an offence against honour; and to say that a man cannot have fought a duel because a man is incapable of anything base or treacherous or sly is just to say a very foolish and meaningless thing."
"Oh, quite so," the adjutant, admitted. "But if Tremayne denies having fought, if he shelters himself behind a falsehood, and says that he has not killed Samoval, then I think the statement assumes some meaning."
"Does Captain Tremayne say that?" she asked him sharply.
"It is what I understood him to say last night when I ordered him under arrest."
"Then," said Sylvia, with full conviction, "Captain Tremayne did not do it."
