"Dead."
"Dead!" repeated Scadgers, with a blanched face--"dead! how? when?"
"Last night; thrown from her horse; had some row with a man named Beresford in the Park; horse was frightened; bolted, and fell with her. It was this cursed Beresford's fault, and--"
"What Beresford is it?"
"Charles Beresford of my office,--Commissioner, you know. I'll make him remember that day's work; I'll post him at his club; I'll horsewhip him in the street; I'll--I'd have done it to-day, but for this--this cold."
"Charles Beresford, eh? And it's him that killed my niece, is it? Horsewhip him, eh? you won't be able to leave your room yet; it's more than a cold you've got, if I may judge by the look of your face and the hot feel of your hands. Charles Beresford, eh? Ay, ay! ay, ay!"
"I'm afraid you're right, Scadgers," said Simnel. "I begin to feel deuced bad, much worse than when I woke. And to be lying here while that scoundrel will be getting safe away--out of my reach!"
"What do you mean, getting away?"
"Why, he's off to the Continent! I myself recommended him to go there, to lie quiet until his difficulties blew over; and he'll be off at once,--to-night or to-morrow."
"Will he, by Jove! no, no! don't you flurry yourself, sir. I'll put a stopper on that. Charles Beresford shall be here whenever you want him, I'll take my oath. Excuse me now; look in and see you to-morrow." And despite Mr. Simnel's calling to him, Mr. Scadgers rushed off at the top of his speed.