"You said she was dead!" he interposed sternly.
"Yes. But before she died—"
"Come to the house," he interrupted again, "I cannot talk to you here."
He retained his hold of her—almost as though he was afraid she might run away—until they reached the front door, which was opened by the old man Felicia had seen before. Mr. Renford addressed a few words to him.
"Order the dinner to be kept back for half-an-hour, Price," he commanded "and see I'm not interrupted. Follow me," he added to Felicia.
She did so, her mind in a whirl of bewilderment. Evidently the old man whom she had thought might be her grandfather was a servant, she reflected.
Mr. Renford led the way into a room on the right of the large entrance hall. It was a pleasant room facing the west, the windows of which opened upon a well-kept flower-garden, and it was comfortably furnished the little girl saw at a glance. A Turkey carpet covered the floor, and the dark walls, panelled in oak, made a suitable background for the heavy gilt frames of the pictures of dogs and horses which ornamented them. Over the high mantel-shelf hung several guns; and altogether it was plain to see that it was the room of a sportsman and not a student, though it was always called the "study."
Mr. Renford placed Felicia in a chair near the open window, and he was about to seat himself opposite to her, when there came an imperative scrape at the door. With an impatient exclamation he crossed the room and admitted Lion, who stalked up to the little girl and laid his great head in her lap. Mr. Renford closed the door; then he turned towards the child and the dog. By that time Felicia had produced the pocket-book which held all the papers her mother had treasured carefully, and she now handed it to him. He took it without a word, and seating himself at his writing-table, with his back towards her, examined its contents.
Though very excited, Felicia waited quietly. There was a tall, old-fashioned clock in the room, and she fastened her eyes on its brass face and watched the minute hand go round. More than fifteen minutes elapsed before Mr. Renford directed his attention to her again.
"So you are my son John's daughter," he said slowly, "and you are now an orphan, it appears. In spite of all your mother's fine boasts of what she could do for you, and her talk of independence, it seems she has not done much—except bring you to want."