But the Borton mystery had almost faded from her mind by this time, and, moreover, she thought it better to “let sleeping dogs lie.”
That was a happy evening, and one Lady Gwendolyn often looked back upon with longing afterward. They had tickets for the Opera Comique, but decided at the last moment that they should be much happier at home; and, dismissing the carriage, drew their chairs up to the log fire, and chatted merrily until bedtime.
Lady Gwendolyn did not cry herself to sleep that night, nor was she troubled by any evil presentiment of coming trouble. As she seemed tired, Colonel Dacre was careful not to rouse her when he went to his dressing-room. But half an hour later he came hurriedly back, with an open letter in his hand.
“Gwen, darling,” he said, “I am so very sorry, but I must go to England directly upon urgent business. The hurried journey would be too much for you, even if I were able to wait until you got ready; but I shall not be away more than three or four days, and I am sure you will not mind being such a short time alone.”
He looked so troubled and anxious that she said at once:
“I am afraid there is something serious the matter that you will not tell me.”
“My uncle, Sir Lawrence, is dead!”
“Is that all?” an inward voice prompted her to say.
He colored faintly, and a little spasm of pain contracted his firm lips as he answered:
“Isn’t that enough, Gwen? However, I must not stand talking here. I have only just time to catch the boat-train.”