“It’s about your uncle—or rather your step-uncle—Mr Gleason.”
Lindsay slumped into a chair, and raised his wild, staring black eyes to Prescott’s face.
“Go on,” he muttered; “what about him?”
“Didn’t you expect him here to-night?”
“Yes—yes—and he didn’t come—what is it? Has anything happened? What has happened? Who did it?”
“Who did what?” Prescott flung the words at him, in a fierce low tone. “What do you know? Out with it!”
His menacing air quite finished the young man, and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing convulsively.
A slight rustle was heard, and a lovely vision appeared in the doorway.
“What is going on?” said a clear young voice. “Louis, what is the matter?”
Phyllis Lindsay faced the stranger as she put her query.