As they went on their way Harold noticed that Leonard's breathing became more regular, as in honest sleep. He therefore drove slowly so that the other might be sane again before they should arrive at the gate of his father's place; he had something of importance to say before they should part.
Seeing him sleeping so peacefully, Harold passed a strap round him to prevent him falling from his seat. Then he could let his thoughts run more freely. Her safety was his immediate concern; again and again he thought over what he should say to Leonard to ensure his silence.
Whilst he was pondering with set brows, he was startled by Leonard's voice at his side:
'Is that you, Harold? I must have been asleep!' Harold remained silent, amazed at the change. Leonard went on, quite awake and coherent:
'By George! I must have been pretty well cut. I don't remember a thing after coming down the stairs of the club and you and the hall-porter helping me up here. I say, old chap, you have strapped me up all safe and tight. It was good of you to take charge of me. I hope I haven't been a beastly nuisance!' Harold answered grimly:
'It wasn't exactly what I should have called it!' Then, after looking keenly at his companion, he said: 'Are you quite awake and sober now?'
'Quite.' The answer came defiantly; there was something in his questioner's tone which was militant and aggressive. Before speaking further Harold pulled up the horse. They were now crossing bare moorland, where anything within a mile could have easily been seen.
They were quite alone, and would be undisturbed. Then he turned to his companion.
'You talked a good deal in your drunken sleep--if sleep it was. You appeared to be awake!' Leonard answered:
'I don't remember anything of it. What did I say?'
'I am going to tell you. You said something so strange and so wrong that you must answer for it. But first I must know its truth.'
'Must! You are pretty dictatorial,' said Leonard angrily. 'Must answer for it! What do you mean?'
'Were you on Caester Hill to-day?'
'What's that to you?' There was no mistaking the defiant, quarrelsome intent.
'Answer me! were you?' Harold's voice was strong and calm.
'What if I was? It is none of your affair. Did I say anything in what you have politely called my drunken sleep?'
'You did.'
'What did I say?'
'I shall tell you in time. But I must know the truth as I proceed.
There is some one else concerned in this, and I must know as I go on.
You can easily judge by what I say if I am right.'
'Then ask away and be damned to you!' Harold's calm voice seemed to quell the other's turbulence as he went on:
'Were you on Caester Hill this morning?'
'I was.'
'Did you meet Miss--a lady there?'
'What . . . I did!'
'Was it by appointment?' Some sort of idea or half-recollection seemed to come to Leonard; he fumbled half consciously in his breast-pocket. Then he broke out angrily:
'You have taken my letter!'
'I know the answer to that question,' said Harold slowly. 'You showed me the letter yourself, and insisted on my reading it.'
Leonard's heart began to quail. He seemed to have an instinctive dread of what was coming. Harold went on calmly and remorselessly:
'Did a proposal of marriage pass between you?'
'Yes!' The answer was defiantly given; Leonard began to feel that his back was against the wall.
'Who made it?' The answer was a sudden attempt at a blow, but Harold struck down his hand in time and held it. Leonard, though a fairly strong man, was powerless in that iron grasp.
'You must answer! It is necessary that I know the truth.'
'Why must you? What have you to do with it? You are not my keeper!
Nor Stephen's; though I dare say you would like to be!' The insult cooled Harold's rising passion, even whilst it wrung his heart.
'I have to do with it because I choose. You may find the answer if you wish in your last insult! Now, clearly understand me, Leonard Everard. You know me of old; and you know that what I say I shall do. One way or another, your life or mine may hang on your answers to me--if necessary!' Leonard felt himself pulled up. He knew well the strength and purpose of the man. With a light laugh, which he felt to be, as it was, hollow, he answered:
'Well, schoolmaster, as you are asking questions, I suppose I may as well answer them. Go on! Next!' Harold went on in the same calm, cold voice:
'Who made the proposal of marriage?'
'She did.'
'Did . . . Was it made at once and directly, or after some preliminary suggestion?'
'After a bit. I didn't quite understand at first what she was driving at.' There was a long pause. With an effort Harold went on:
'Did you accept?' Leonard hesitated. With a really wicked scowl he eyed his big, powerfully-built companion, who still had his hand as in a vice. Then seeing no resource, he answered:
'I did not! That does not mean that I won't, though!' he added defiantly. To his surprise Harold suddenly released his hand. There was a grimness in his tone as he said:
'That will do! I know now that you have spoken the truth, sober as well as drunk. You need say no more. I know the rest. Most men--even brutes like you, if there are any--would have been ashamed even to think the things you said, said openly to me, you hound. You vile, traitorous, mean-souled hound!'
'What did I say?'
'I know what you said; and I shall not forget it.' He went on, his voice deepening into a stern judicial utterance, as though he were pronouncing a sentence of death:
'Leonard Everard, you have treated vilely a lady whom I love and honour more than I love my own soul. You have insulted her to her face and behind her back. You have made such disloyal reference to her and to her mad act in so trusting you, and have so shown your intention of causing, intentionally or unintentionally, woe to her, that I tell you here and now that you hold henceforth your life in your hand. If you ever mention to a living soul what you have told me twice to-night, even though you should be then her husband; if you should cause her harm though she should then be your wife; if you should cause her dishonour in public or in private, I shall kill you.