She rose, laughed at herself for starting on some slight noise in the quiet house—old Andrews locking up the front door, probably—snuffed her candle to make it as bright as possible, and prepared to go up-stairs.
A light knock at the door.
“Come in, Andrews. The fire is all safe, and I shall vanish now.”
She said this without looking round. When she did look she was somewhat surprised to see, not the butler, but Marmaduke Dugdale. It was odd, certainly, but then Duke had such very odd ways, and was always turning up at impossible hours and in eccentric fashion. He looked eccentric enough now, being thoroughly drenched with rain, with a queer, scared expression on his face.
Agatha was amused by it. “Why, what a late visitor! The children are gone home hours ago, though they waited ever so long for 'Pa.' Have you been all this while at Mr. Trenchard's?”
“I haven't been there at all.”
Agatha smiled.
“Don't'ee laugh—now don't'ee, Mrs. Harper.” And Duke sat down, pushing the dripping hair from his forehead, pulling his face into all sorts of contortions, until at last it sunk between his hands, and those clear, honest, always beautiful eyes, alone confronted her. There was that in their expression which startled Agatha.
“What did you come for so late, Mr. Dugdale?”
“What did I come for?” he vaguely repeated. “Now don't'ee tremble so. We must hope for the best, my child.”