“Careful, you fool, they're looking,” he said in a quick whisper, and in a loud voice: “Very sorry, sir; beg pardon—I'm sure I didn't mean anything.”
Walter Dunsmore swung round upon his heel and went quickly back to where Lord Chobham waited; and his face was like that of one who has gazed into the very eyes of death.
“Lord in Heaven,” he muttered, “it's all over, I'm done.” And his hand felt for a little metal box he carried in his waistcoat pocket and that held half a dozen small round tablets, each of them a strong man's death.
But he took his hand away again as he rejoined his cousin, patron, and employer, old Lord Chobham.
“What's the matter, Walter?” Lord Chobham asked. “You look pale.”
“The fellow was a bit impudent; he made me angry,” said Walter carelessly. He fingered the little box in his waistcoat pocket and thought how one tablet on his tongue would always end it all. “By the way, oughtn't Rupert to be back soon?” he asked.
“Yes, he ought,” said Lord Chobham severely. “It's time he married and settled down—I shall speak to his father about it. The boy is always rushing off somewhere or another when he ought to be getting to know the estate and the tenants.”
Walter Dunsmore laughed.
“I think he knows them both fairly well already,” he said. “Not a tenant on the place but swears by Rupert. He's a fine fellow, uncle.”
“Oh, you always stick up for him; you and he were always friends,” answered Lord Chobham in a grumbling tone, but really very pleased. “I know I'm never allowed to say a word about Rupert.”