Bernard threw up his hands. "And I'm a hunted fugitive."
"Steady, old boy. Bite on the bullet. You're a dead man, and will remain one until we discover who killed your grandfather."
"And how can we——"
"Shut up, Bernard!" Conniston made an imperative sign as a knock came to the door. Gore at once turned his face to the fire and began to arrange the logs, while Lord Conniston spoke to a sharp, dark, wizen child who entered the room. She was no more than fifteen, but had such an old face and such a womanly appearance that she looked much older. Her eyes were as black as sloes and her thin lips tightly closed. A most unpleasant-looking creature with a waspish nature.
"Oh, Victoria," said Conniston, as this goblin dropped a curtsey, "I want you to bring up some port wine.—Mrs. Moon will give it to you—and some glasses also."
"Yes, m'lord!"
"Bring a plate of biscuits too."
"Yes, m'lord!"
"And, Victoria," said the young man, as she retreated, "there is no need for you to mention that I have visitors at the castle."
"No, m'lord," said Victoria, and, with a glance full of suspicion at Bernard's back, she withdrew as noiselessly as she entered, and with a final curtsey, such as might have been made by a wooden doll. Indeed, Victoria—a most inappropriate name—might well have been cut out of wood, so stiff and angular and hard did she look. Conniston did not wonder that placid Mrs. Moon could not control this embryo virago. A combat between them would be like that between an elephant and a mosquito, with the betting on the insect.