t
half-way down the gallery, there stood on the floor what seemed to be an
unfinished picture, with its face turned to the wall.

Except when Westray stopped, Lord Blandamer looked neither to the right
nor to the left; he walked with his hands folded lightly behind him, and
with his eyes upon the ground, yet did not feign to have his thoughts
disengaged. His companion shrank from any attempt to understand or
fathom what those thoughts could be, but admired, against his will, the
contained and resolute bearing. Westray felt as a child beside a giant,
yet had no doubt as to his own duty, or that he was going to do it. But
how hard it was! Why had he been so foolish as to meddle with the
picture? Why had he read papers that did not belong to him? Why, above
all, had he come down to Fording to have his suspicions confirmed? What
business was it of his to ferret out these things? He felt all the
unutterable aversion of an upright mind for playing the part of a
detective; all the sovereign contempt even for such petty meanness as
allows one person to examine the handwriting or postmark of letters
addressed to another. Yet he knew this thing, and he alone; he could
not do away with this horrible knowledge.

The end of the gallery was reached; they turned with one accord and
paced slowly, silently back, and the time was slipping away fast. It
was impossible for Westray to consider anything _now_, but he had taken
his decision before he came to Fording; he must go through with it;
there was no escape for _him_ any more than for Lord Blandamer. He
would keep his word. On Monday, the day he had mentioned, he would
speak, and once begun, the matter would pass out of his hands. But how
was he to tell this to the man who was walking beside him, and silently
waiting for his sentence? He could not leave him in suspense; to do so
would be cowardice and cruelty. He must make his intention clear, but
how? in what form of words? There was no time to think; already they
were repassing that canvas which stood with its face to the wall.

The suspense, the impenetrable silence, was telling upon Westray; he
tried again to rearrange his thoughts, but they were centred only on
Lord Blandamer. How calm he seemed, with his hands folded behind him,
and never a finger twitching! What did _he_ mean to do--to fly, or kill
himself, or stand his ground and take his trial on a last chance? It
would be a celebrated trial. Hateful and