Yet the old gentleman, having bid me enter, went on reading for a while as though wholly unaware of me: which I found somewhat nettling, so began—
“I speak, I believe, to Master Hannibal Tingcomb, steward to Sir Deakin Killigrew.”
He went on, as if ending his sentence aloud: “... And my darling from the power of the dog.” Here he paused with finger on the place and looked up. “Yes, young sir, that is my name—steward to the late Sir Deakin Killigrew.”
“The late?” cried I: “Then you know—”
“Surely I know that Sir Deakin is dead: else should I be but an unworthy steward.” He open’d his grave eyes as if in wonder.
“And his son, also?”
“Also his son Anthony, a headstrong boy, I fear me, a consorter with vile characters. Alas? that I should say it.”
“And his daughter, Mistress Delia?”
“Alas!” and he fetched a deep sigh.
“Do you mean, sir, that she too is dead!”