"He says nothing, because he thinks you are drown-dead, as Mr. Peggotty would say. And, by Jove! Bernard, I thought you really were dead. You have no idea what a relief it was when I got your letter. How did you escape?"
Bernard passed his hand through his hair and sighed wearily. The strain through which he had passed, and from which he still suffered, showed itself in his bloodless cheeks and his wild eyes. At every sound he started and shook. His nerves, and small wonder, were quite unstrung, and even while sitting safely beside his old school chum on the sofa near the fire, he kept a tight hold of him, like a child by its mother's knee. Seeing this, Conniston rose quickly. Bernard was on his feet in a moment, startled by the suddenness of the movement.
"What's the matter?" he demanded, looking anxiously around, and eyeing both door and window suspiciously.
"You are the matter," said Conniston, touching the bell. "I must get you some wine. You look so awfully ill, old chap. This will never do. I tell you, Bernard, you are all right. I'll stick to you through thick and thin."
"But if I was arrested?"
"You won't be arrested. Everyone thinks you are dead. You'll stay here until we sift this matter to the bottom, and then you can take your place again in the world as Sir Bernard Gore."
"Sir Bernard!"
"Of course. You inherit the title and the money also."
"Not the money, Dick?"
"Yes! Durham told me to tell you, as he couldn't come himself. He is now reading the will and Beryl will find himself left out in the cold. You get everything."