Sir Terence, however, sat back in his chair, his work neglected,
his eyes dreamily gazing through the open window, but seeing nothing
of the sun-drenched landscape beyond, a heavy frown darkening his
bronzed and rugged face. His mind was very far from his official
duties and the mass of reminders before him - this Augean stable of
arrears. He was lost in thought of his wife and Tremayne.
Five days had elapsed since the ball at Count Redondo's, where
Sir Terence had surprised the pair together in the garden and his
suspicions had been fired by the compromising attitude in which he
had discovered them. Tremayne's frank, easy bearing, so unassociable
with guilt, had, as we know, gone far, to reassure him, and had even
shamed him, so that he had trampled his suspicions underfoot. But
other things had happened since to revive his bitter doubts. Daily,
constantly, had he been coming upon Tremayne and Lady O'Moy alone
together in intimate, confidential talk which was ever silenced on
his approach. The two had taken to wandering by themselves in the
gardens at all hours, a thing that had never been so before, and
O'Moy detected, or imagined that he detected, a closer intimacy
between them, a greater warmth towards the captain on the part of
her ladyship.
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