“But I cannot! I cannot resign all hope! I cannot!” passionately exclaimed the young man.
“Listen to me further. Hear all that I have to say and you must do so,” gravely and tenderly replied the doctor.
“What have you to tell me now? You said you had no news to bring me of Lilith. You said so when you first came in and I asked you the question.”
“And I spoke the truth,” patiently replied the old man. “I had no news of Lilith. But I had news of the gypsy girl, which—ah me!—leaves me no doubt as to whose remains they were that were found in the woods.”
“Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven!” groaned Hereward. “But tell me all! I can bear it! Yes, I can bear it!”
“There is a man by the name of Carter now stopping at the Stag, who was in the train at midnight of March 21st, when the strolling player and his gypsy wife got on board. He was a sullen ruffian in coarse clothing. She a pretty, dark-eyed gypsy, with black hair, and she was dressed in a red suit, with something dark about her head and shoulders. They were the only people who got in that train at Frosthill. They had been quarreling, and the man had a scowling, ferocious look, while the woman seemed terrified and broken-hearted. Does not this coincide perfectly with all that we have heard about the poor girl and her ruffianly companion?” gently inquired the doctor.
Hereward replied only by a groan.
“Come, Tudor! I must take you upstairs. You must lie down, and I will send Cave to you,” said the doctor, with gentle firmness.
But it was with considerable difficulty that the doctor finally prevailed on his deeply stricken patient to seek the rest and retirement of his own chamber.
Then Dr. Kerr, leaving Nancy in charge of the sick-room, went downstairs, got into his saddle and rode off, dinnerless, to make a round of professional visits on a circuit of at least thirty miles. It was very late in the afternoon when he finally reached Frosthill.