“Where is it?”
“Indeed, I have no notion, sir.”
“What was its colour?”
“It had stripes of pale red, I only remember.”
“Find it, if you can, and bring it to me.”
“Now, sir, now. You think the stone may have escaped into it? It hath been in their hands, sir, down there. It is not possible.”
“Go, at least, and look.”
He resumed his monotonous walk. A desperate impatience to somehow end all this overbearing insolence of circumstance raged in his veins. But Fate must still be nagging at him like a hot wife. He heard the door opened and thought it was Whimple returned. It was Sir David, however, who stepped primly down and came up with a stony face to the poor man.
“Miss Royston is recovered?” said Tuke.
“The shock dwells with her. The wound is superficial. She is seated with Lord Dunlone for distraction of her thoughts.”