"What Russian, uncle? In mercy's name, tell me!"
"Your man Poubalov! He is——" Mr. Pembroke's words stuck in his throat and he looked at Clara with watery eyes.
"You have seen him then," she whispered faintly.
Mr. Pembroke nodded.
"And you have nothing to tell me?"
Her uncle opened his lips, tried to speak, and failing, grasped the table with both hands while his eyes fixed themselves in a stare and his face grew livid.
Clara ran to the sideboard in the dining-room and brought him a glass of brandy.
She poured a quantity down his throat till he gasped with pain.
The spasm passed, but left him weak, well-nigh helpless, and Clara summoned the servant to take him to his room.
A neighboring physician was called in, and after half an hour or so he reported that Mr. Pembroke was in no immediate danger.