“You wish to speak to me, ma’am?” he asked, looking straight at her, and putting the question with his usual directness of manner.
“Yes,” answered Chris, softly; “and I’m quite sure you know what it is about.”
“I suppose, ma’am,” he answered, without any fencing, “it is about Mr. Richard.”
“Yes. You let him come out to-day. Surely you would not let a madman go about by himself, and expect him to come back quietly as Mr. Richard did? It seems to me, Stelfox, that his only mania is a great dislike to Mr. Bradfield.”
A little gleam of surprise, or of amusement, Chris hardly knew which, shot out of the man’s steady eyes. But the next moment he looked drier, he spoke more cautiously than ever.
“They do take fancies into their heads, ma’am, people that are not quite right do,” he answered.
“But is he not quite right? Isn’t he only pretending? And isn’t that why he will not speak?” asked Chris, running the questions one into another in her eagerness. “The more I see of him the more absurd it seems to suppose that he is not in his right senses. Do, Stelfox, tell me all about him, and why he is shut up here.”
“I give you my word, ma’am,” answered Stelfox at once and straightforwardly, “that I know no more than the dead.”
Chris was petrified with astonishment.