Miss Vicky was about to follow, but Alan detained her.
"Give her a sedative or something," he said, "or she will be ill."
"I will at once. Have a carriage at the door in a quarter of an hour, Mr. Thorold. We can be ready by then. I suppose it is best she should go?"
"Much better than to leave her here. We must set her mind at rest. At this rate she will work herself into a fever."
"But if this story should really be true?"
"I don't believe it for a moment," replied Alan. But he was evidently uneasy, and could not disguise the feeling. "Wait till we get to Heathton--wait," and he hastily left the room.
Miss Vicky was surprised at his agitation, for hitherto she had credited Alan with a will strong enough to conceal his emotions. The old lady hurried away to the packing, and shook her head as she went.
Shortly they were settled in a first-class carriage on the way to Heathton. Sophy was suffering acutely, but did all in her power to hide her feelings, and, contrary to Alan's expectations, hardly a word was spoken about the strange letter, and the greater part of the journey was passed in silence. At Heathton he put Sophy and Miss Vicky into a fly.
"Drive at once to the Moat House," he said. "To-morrow we shall consider what is to be done."
"And you, Alan?"