But Nap was silent.  His fingers were still closed firmly upon her wrist.

“Mrs. Errol is very good,” Anne said earnestly.  “You mustn’t think me ungrateful or unappreciative.  But I cannot go on like this.  I cannot!”

“I am afraid you have no choice,” Nap said.

She scarcely heard him.  At least she paid no heed.  “Will you tell me exactly what has passed?  Has he definitely refused to come to me?  Because, if so—­”

“If so—­” said Nap gently.

She summoned her wavering self-control.  “If so—­I must go back to him at once.  I must indeed.  You will manage it for me, will you not?  Perhaps you will take me yourself in the motor.”

“No,” said Nap.  He spoke briefly, even sternly.  He was bending down over her, and she caught the gleam of the firelight in his eyes and thought that they shone red.  “I would do a good deal for you, Lady Carfax,” he said, “but I can’t do that.  You ask the impossible.”  He paused a moment and she felt his grasp slowly tighten upon her hand.  “You want to know what passed, and perhaps it is better that you should know even if it distresses you.  I sent a messenger in the motor to Sir Giles last night to tell him of your accident and to beg him to return here with him.  He came back alone with no definite reply.  He did not, in fact, see Sir Giles, though the message was delivered.  I waited till noon today to see if he would come, and then as there was no sign of him I went myself in the motor to fetch him.”

“Ah!” Anne’s lips parted to utter the word.  They were quivering uncontrollably.

“I saw him,” Nap went on very quietly.  “I practically forced an entrance.  He was in his study alone.  I fancy he was feeling sick, but I didn’t stop to inquire.  I told him you were wanting him.  I was quite kind to him—­for your sake.”  She fancied the grim lips smiled.  “But I regret to say he didn’t appreciate my kindness, and I soon saw that he was in no state to come to you even if he would.  So—­I left him and came away.”

“Ah!” Again that faint exclamation that was like the half-uttered cry of a woman’s heart.  “He wasn’t—­wasn’t rude to you, I hope?”

Nap’s teeth showed for an instant.  He made no reply.

“Mr. Errol,” she said beseechingly, “please tell me everything!  He did not—­did not—­”

“Kick me?” questioned Nap drily.  “My dear lady, no man may kick Nap Errol and live.  So I did not give him the opportunity.”

She uttered a quick sob and turned her head upon the pillow.  The tears were running down her face.

The hand that pressed her wrist began to rub it very gently.  “That’s the worst of telling the truth,” Nap said softly.  “It is sure to hurt someone.”

“I am glad you told me,” she whispered back, “though I don’t know what to say to you—­how to atone—­”

“I will tell you then,” he answered swiftly.  “Stay quietly here and be as happy as you can till the doctor gives you leave to go back.  You will have to do it in any case, but—­if you feel you owe me anything, which of course you don’t”—­he smiled again, and his smile when free from cynicism held a wonderful charm—­“do it willingly—­please do it willingly!”