“Come along with me, then.”
O’Rorke was too much excited by the thought of the presence he was about to stand in, to note more than generally the spacious hall and the immense marble stairs that led from it. The lofty corridor, whose windows of stained glass threw a rose-coloured glow over walls and pavement, together with the rich perfume of flowers, made his head feel confused and addled.
As the servant ushered him on the terrace, he whispered, “Go forward,” and then retired. O’Rorke advanced to where Sir Within was now seated, one arm leaning on the table beside him.
“You said you came from Ireland,” asked he, in a weak voice; “is it from Arran?”
“It is, Sir.”
“Thank Heaven!” muttered he to himself. “Give me your letter. Go down yonder”—and he pointed to the extreme end of the terrace—“I shall call you when I want you.”
When O’Rorke reached the end of the terrace, he turned a cautious, furtive look towards the old man, who still sat with the unopened letter in his hand, and did not move. At last he broke the seal, but such seemed the agitation of his feelings that he could scarcely read it, for he twice laid it on the table and hid his face between his hands. Suddenly he looked up and beckoned O’Rorke towards him, and said:
“Tell me, my good man, do you know the contents of this letter?”
“I know what it’s about, Sir.”
“Were you with her when she wrote it?”