Both sat quite still; quite silent for some time. Through the silence a sharp, clear voice was heard speaking through the folding-doors.
“Take the kedgeree down, and tell the cook to keep it hot for the judge. It is so tiresome people coming on business here, as if the judge had not his proper hours for being at chambers.”
He got up hastily, and went into the dining-room; but he had audibly some difficulty in curbing his wife’s irritation.
When he came back, Ellinor said:
“I am afraid I ought not to have come here now.”
“Oh! it’s all nonsense!” said he, in a tone of annoyance. “You’ve done quite right.” He seated himself where he had been before; and again half covered his face with his hand.
“And Dixon knew of this. I believe I must put the fact plainly—to you—your father was the guilty person? he murdered Dunster?”
“Yes. If you call it murder. It was done by a blow, in the heat of passion. No one can ever tell how Dunster always irritated papa,” said Ellinor, in a stupid, heavy way; and then she sighed.
“How do you know this?” There was a kind of tender reluctance in the judge’s voice, as he put all these questions. Ellinor had made up her mind beforehand that something like them must be asked, and must also be answered; but she spoke like a sleep-walker.
“I came into papa’s room just after he had struck Mr. Dunster the blow. He was lying insensible, as we thought—dead, as he really was.”