“You have found something of mine, Millar tells me,” began Lewis, finding that, ghost-like, his visitor appeared to consider it a point of etiquette not to speak first.
“You’re very kind, Mr. Arundel,” returned his visitor, who, catching sight at the moment of the gilt frame of an oil painting which hung over the chimney, and believing it firmly to be pure gold, became so overpowered between that and the carpet that he scarcely dared trust himself to speak in such an aristocratic atmosphere. “I’m much obliged to you, sir. Yes, I have found something, sir, but I don’t know disactly as it’s altogether yourn.”
“What is it, my good fellow?” inquired Lewis, half amused and half bored by the man’s bashfulness.
A consolatory mistrust of the sterling value of the picture-frame had by this time begun to insinuate itself into Sam’s mind, and reassured in some degree by the doubt, he continued—
“I beg pardon, sir, but I hopes you don’t feel so bad as might be expected; you looks shocking pale, surely.”
Lewis thanked him for his inquiry, and said he believed the wound was going on favourably.
“I’m sure I’m very glad to hear it, which is a mercy to be thankful for; you looking so bad, too,” returned this sympathising visitor; then leaning forward so as to approach his lips to Lewis’s ear, he continued in a loud whisper—
“Have ye any notion who it was as fired the shot?”
Lewis started, and colouring slightly, fixed his eyes on the man’s face as he inquired abruptly—
“Have you?”