“Not for a day since my dying father swore me to the curse of vengeance,” he cried, “has the stone been out of my mind. Judge then of my agitation when I hear you, a stranger, casually refer to it by name as having some bearing on a mystery connected with your house.”
“But not with me,” said Mr. Tuke coldly. There was something nameless in the man’s frenzy—an uncleanly savour of passion that was devoid of all nobility.
“I can have no objection,” he went on, “to acquaint you of the circumstances that inspired me to so unfortunate a reference.”
“If you please, sir,” said the soldier, in a tone that was almost a menace.
Sir David saw the blood leap to his new neighbour’s face.
“Humour him, humour him,” he whispered, “in the Lord’s name!”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Tuke, “if you will give me your attention, I will endeavour to recall the matter for your behoof”—and he then and there recounted those experiences of his at “Delsrop” that had awakened his suspicions, ending up with the history of the interview between Mr. Joseph Corby and the crazed girl.
To this description Sir David listened with some open-mouthed astonishment, and Captain Luvaine with a black concentration of his every faculty upon the minutest details.
As the speaker ended, he, the latter, blew out all his restraint in a labouring sigh, and stared before him with eyebrows pulled together like the strings of a purse.
“’Tis passing strange,” he muttered. “There can be but one Lake of Wine. Whence does the fellow come, and wherefore?”