Vaughan nodded. “Yes, that’s like Mr. Carleton,” he said. “But of course it wasn’t any of his fault, just the same. He couldn’t have looked ahead to anything like that.”
“No, indeed, sir,” the man answered heartily, “of course he couldn’t. But as you say, sir, it’s like him. He’s always very considerate with all of us. Oh, he certainly took on terrible; he was as white as a sheet when they brought poor Tom in.”
“Yes, yes,” said Vaughan absently, “I don’t doubt;” then quickly, “and how about Mr. Jack?”
“Why, he was in a bad way, too, sir,” answered Rollins, “but different like, more quiet, as if he had his wits more about him.”
In spite of himself, at the words Vaughan started, and then, “What about the horse?” he asked.
“That was curious, sir,” the man replied, “the horse was in, unharnessed and in his stall; seems as if Tom must have got back early, after all. But no one knows how.”
As he spoke, in the hall outside a bell rang sharply and at once he turned to answer it, then paused. “That’s Mr. Carleton, sir,” he said, and then with a quick return to his usual manner, “Is there anything further you might wish, sir?” and on Vaughan’s half-mechanical answer in the negative, he hastily left the room.
It was on a disturbed and disordered household that Vaughan half an hour later descended. Rose alone came to meet him as he reached the foot of the stairs, and in silence led the way into the deserted breakfast room.
“You won’t find very much to eat, Arthur, I’m afraid,” she said. “You mustn’t mind. Everything’s so terribly upset.”
He bent and kissed her, pitying her white face and trembling hands. “My dear girl,” he said tenderly, “don’t worry about me. Breakfast doesn’t count at a time like this. Where has everybody gone?”