“He sent my husband! And did he go?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I know it.”
“I never heard of this,” said she, holding her hands to her temples. “About what time was it?”
“It was on Friday last. I remember the day, because it was the last time I saw poor Tom.”
“On Friday last,” said she, pondering. “Yes, you are right. I do remember that Friday;” and she drew up the sleeve of her dress, and looked at a dark-blue mark upon the fair white skin of her arm; but so hastily was the action done that Lucy did not remark it.
“It was on Friday morning. It was on the forenoon of Friday, was it not?”
“Yes. The clock struck one, I remember, as I got back to the house.”
“Tell me, Lucy,” said she in a caressing tone, as she drew her arm round the girl's waist,—“tell me, darling, how did Colonel Sewell look after that interview? Did he seem angry or irritated? I'll tell you why I ask this some other time,—but I want to know if he seemed vexed or chagrined by meeting this man.”