“I am sorry to tell you, my lady, there is something seriously amiss.”
Lady Lochore spread out her arms as if groping for support. Her dry tongue clicked.
“I knew there was no use going to Sir David,” continued the unctuous whisper.
Sir David! The blackness suddenly passed away from before Lady Lochore’s eyes.
“Sir David, woman!” She clutched the housekeeper’s wrist and pinched it sharply.
“Yes, my lady.” Margery looked mildly surprised. “Him being always lost in stars, so to speak, and locked up in his tower.”
“Then he’s not ill?” Lady Lochore flung the servant’s hand away from her. She drew a deep breath, then gave a little rasping laugh. What news she had hoped for? Relief and disappointment ran through her like cross currents.
“Ill, my lady? Sir David? Thank God, no! Not as I know, my lady.”
Margery did not often show emotion beyond a well fixed point. But she was surprised; she really was.
“Please, my lady,” began the whisper again, and Lady Lochore bent for a moment a scornful ear. Then her laughter rang out again, louder this time.