“I’ll wait,” he muttered, and he closed his eyes resolutely. The minutes passed, and presently there was a low knock at the door, and a servant crept up to Stephen.
“Mr. Newcombe is below, sir.”
Stephen looked warningly at the bed, and stole on tiptoe from the room—not that there was any occasion to go on tiptoe, for his ordinary walk was as noiseless as a cat’s—down the old treadworn stairs, into the neglected hall, and entered the library.
Bolt upright, and looking very like a Savage indeed, stood Jack Newcombe.
With noiseless step and mournful smile, Stephen entered, closed the door, and held out his hand.
“My dear Jack, how late you are!”
With an angry gesture Jack thrust his hands in his pockets, and glared wrathfully at the white, placid face.
“Late!” he echoed, passionately. “Why didn’t you tell me that he was dying?”
“Hush!” murmured Stephen, with a shocked look—though if Jack had bellowed in his savagest tone, his voice would not have reached the room upstairs. “Pray, be quiet, my dear Jack. Tell you! Didn’t my man give you my message? I particularly told him to describe the state of my uncle’s health. Slummers is not apt to forget or neglect messages!”
“Messages!” said Jack, with wrathful incredulity; “he gave me none—left none, rather, for I was out. He simply said that the squire wanted to see me.”