That
is enough. I cannot do more."
He wheeled on his heel and went out. A minute later the two heard the
front door bang.
She looked at Mr. Vincent. He was twirling softly in his strong
fingers a little bronze candlestick that stood on the mantelpiece: his
manner was completely unconcerned; he even seemed to be smiling a
little.
For herself she felt helpless. She had taken her choice, impelled to
it, though she scarcely recognized the fact, by the entrance of this
strong personality; and now she needed reassurance once again. But
before she had a word to say, he spoke--still in his serene manner.
"Yes, yes," he said. "I remember now. I used to know Mr. Cathcart
once. A very violent old gentleman."
"What did he mean?"
"His reasons for leaving us? Indeed I scarcely remember. I suppose it
was because he became a Catholic."
"Was there nothing more?"
He looked at her pleasantly.
"Why, I daresay there was. I really can't remember, Lady Laura. I
suppose he had his nerves shaken. You can see for yourself what a
fanatic he is."
But in spite of his presence, once more a gust of anxiety shook her.
"Mr. Vincent, are you sure it's safe--for Mr. Baxter, I mean?"
"Safe? Why, he's as safe as any of us can be.
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