A week later, and Sydney was at the Deanery again.
Hugh’s hero, the great surgeon who gave his services to the Blue-friars Hospital, had come down to see St. Quentin, and perform on him the operation which had saved the life of the man Duncombe.
Under these circumstances Lady Frederica declined absolutely remaining at the Castle.
“My nerves really wouldn’t stand it,” she explained. “I hate anything to do with illness, but hitherto St. Quentin’s has been kept comparatively in the background: in fact, it has been possible to forget it. But an operation—with doctors and nurses hovering round—and bulletins upon the door, and people expecting one to have a full, true, and particular account of how the patient is at one’s finger’s ends! No, thank you. I shall go to town, and Sydney shall come with me.”
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But Sydney rebelled, and appealed against the verdict to her cousin.
“If I must go away, let me go to the Deanery!” she implored. “I can’t go with Lady Frederica! I must go to somebody who cares too!”
A flush swept over St. Quentin’s face.
“Who cares too?” he muttered, then with an effort turned to her and spoke aloud.
“Sydney, I’ll tell you this. If, in God’s mercy, I get through the operation, I am going to follow your advice, and tell the girl I love just everything, as I told you.”
Sydney got her way, and went to the Deanery, accompanied by Miss Osric, leaving Lady Frederica to go off to town alone.
The third day of her absence from the Castle had come—a long dreary day, which seemed unending. It was to relieve the strain of that waiting time that Katharine suggested, when the shadows were falling long about the Close, that they should go across to Oliver’s, to choose a gold chain as a birthday present for the little cousin Sylvia, whose birthday was to be on the morrow.
Action of any kind was something of a comfort, and Sydney came.
A shabbily-dressed man was just concluding
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 some bargain with the jeweller as the two girls came into the shop—some bargain with which he seemed very much dissatisfied. “It’s worth ever so much more, confound you for a screw!” they heard him say. “Why, that’s two quid less than you gave the parson for it. I only brought it here because I thought you’d give a better price for your own thing.”
Sydney started violently, for the voice was Sir Algernon’s, and on the counter between him and Oliver there lay her little watch.
Katharine had recognised him also, and her eyes flashed. “Come away, Sydney dear,” she said.
Low as she spoke, he caught the words and turned. But for his voice, Sydney hardly would have known him.
The light of a pale spring evening fell upon his face through the open doorway of the jeweller’s shop, and showed up pitilessly the wreck he had made of it. His eyes were bloodshot and furtive, and the lines had deepened round them, while his hair showed very grey above the ears. He looked to-day far older than his forty-one years warranted.
He made an uncertain movement forward. Katharine drew away: “Come, Sydney!”
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They left the shop, but, once outside, the younger girl paused, looking back.
Sir Algernon had followed them into the street, and was gazing after them as though he wished to speak. Sydney noted the shabbiness of his dress and the fact that he had not shaved that morning.
“Katharine,” she said, “won’t you hear what he has to say?”
He heard her and came forward. The hand with which he lifted his hat shook. Katharine drew herself away from him, but Sydney stood her ground.
“Thank you,” he said, “I only want you to give Quin a message from me. He wrote to me, you know, to tell me that he had Duncombe’s written confession of the part I’d ............