The servant spoke in a faint, tired voice.
“Dared not! and why?” said his master.
Whimple looked about him helplessly, as if he sought a loophole of escape from the question.
“Come,” said the other, “why did you not dare?”
“I was frightened; terrified. There were noises and footsteps.”
“The wind or any other natural cause. These bugbears don’t stalk in the daytime. A pretty caretaker, upon my word!”
He looked at the fellow gloomily; hesitated, and, bidding him roughly see to his horse, turned into the dining-hall, closed the door, unbolted and threw open the shutters, and sat himself down before a dull fire.
“What is it all? what is it all?” he thought desperately. “Am I in good truth being stalked and shadowed, and for what reason? And is that fellow in the league against me? Blythewood knows him well, and has a high opinion of him. What then? What favourable view can I possibly take of his reticence and evasiveness? For all I know, Blythewood himself may be the chief of a colony of pads and cut-throats. I am a lamb amongst wolves—knowing nought of the neighbourhood; moving in the dark. I am drowned and overwhelmed in a sea of mysteries—in a cursed Lake of Wine. And there, there, there! Luvaine’s fabulous stone!”
He sprang to his feet, and set to pacing the room.
“By God!” he cried aloud, “I will stand it no more! I will be master of my own, and subscribe no longer to the infernal bullying of circumstances!”