"I cannot have any more of this. You must leave. I am suffering from a very severe headache."
Maurice gravely studied the crimsoned brow and its swelling veins.
"Yes, I see. You are not well. But I must see you again. I have a right to know more."
The Squire, leaning forward and breathing heavily, did not move. Maurice stood up, said "Good-bye" coldly, and walked to the door. There he hesitated, and glanced back.
A strained and troubled face the supporting hands—a face of beseeching appeal. It was as if the Squire were being impelled by some strong force to take action, against his own will.
"Don't go!" came slowly. "Wait! I have—something to say to you."
[CHAPTER XXXIX]
"That was Well Done!"
THE omnium gatherum of friends and neighbours, tenants and retainers, had come. It was a warm, brilliant, autumn day. People thronged the house and grounds, the garden and the cricket-field. On this one day in the year, for three hours in the afternoon, all Lynnbrooke was welcome; and Lynnbrooke did not fail to make the most of its opportunity.
A slight shadow brooded over the usually light-hearted throng; for the Squire was unwell. He did not appear at the usual time; and it leaked out that he was lying down, much indisposed. Anxious inquiries made known the fact that his doctor had not been summoned, but was enjoying himself with the cricketers; so, of course, nothing could be seriously wrong.