“I’ve got him,” whispered Vernon, “but—but—confound it, I have to say it! but—but I think the fellow is more than half drunk!”
“Impossible!” said Lord Carfield, in a low tone of horror.
“But—but I’m afraid it’s true, my lord,” said Vernon. “I’ve given him soda water, and made him bathe his head. Oh, Lord! it’s too awful to think of! That sweet young creature!” and the young fellow uttered an oath which will probably be forgiven him.
Lord Carfield held the study door in his hand.
“Keep him out of the squire’s sight,” he said, in a troubled voice. “I suppose she must go now with him. What can have come to him?”
“Oh, she must go,” assented Vernon, despairingly. “Here”—to the footman—“tell Miss—confound it! I mean Mrs. Bradstone’s maid—that the carriage is waiting. Be sharp.”
The footman was hurrying across the hall, when, forcing his way through the crowd of guests, a man whom everybody recognized as the head keeper, caught him by the arm.
“The squire!” he said, breathlessly. “The squire! Where is he? At once! I must see him!”
“S—sh!” warned the footman, “don’t make that noise, Browne. You can’t see him now!”
“I must—or Lord Carfield.”