“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 she 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.” “Perhaps he didn’t,” Sir Terence admitted. “The court will no doubt discover the truth. The truth, you know, must prevail,” and he looked at his wife again, marking the fresh signs of agitation she betrayed. Mullins coming to set fresh covers, the conversation was allowed to lapse. Nor was it ever resumed, for at that moment, with no other announcement save such as was afforded by his quick step and the click-click of his spurs, a short, slight man entered the quadrangle from the doorway of the official wing. The adjutant, turning to look, caught his breath suddenly in an exclamation of astonishment. “Lord Wellington!” he cried, and was immediately on his feet.