"That is high praise from you, I suppose," said Hubert, smiling faintly.
"But you do not look at all well, Hubert. What is the matter with you? You look terribly fagged!"
Her remark was justified by his appearance. His face had a drawn look which added ten years to his age; his eyes seemed almost to have sunk into his head. He made an impatient gesture, and looked away.
"I have not been very well," he said; "but there is no need to speak about it. I am very busy, and I want rest—change of scene and air."
"Why not come down to Beechfield?"
He gave a slight but perceptible shudder.
"No," he said briefly, and then stood leaning against his writing-table, and was silent.
"Hubert," said his sister, a little more quickly than usual, "I said that I wanted to see my dentist, but I had another reason for coming to town. Can you tell me where I can find a file of the Times newspaper for the early months of the year 187-?"—she mentioned the year of Sydney Vane's death and the trial of Andrew Westwood.
"You want—the trial?" said her brother, with an evident effort. She bowed her head.
"Why?"