The man obeyed; but as he quitted the library, he muttered, "Oh! very well."
Sir William Winslow felt he had gained something during the last few hours. It was courage of a peculiar sort. The day before he would not have found resolution so to answer a man, who, to a certain degree, had his life and honour in his hands. Now he had no hesitation; and as he sat and thought, he asked himself if it was the having taken the first step towards atonement which had restored to him his long-lost firmness. He thought it was; and he resolved to go on boldly. Perhaps he mistook the cause of the change in himself. His was one of those quick and irritable dispositions which cannot bear suspense of any kind, which will rather confront the utmost peril than wait an hour in fear; and the very fact of having taken a strong resolution gave the power to execute it. But still he fancied that the purpose of doing right, of making atonement, was the result of his renewed vigour; and the mistake was salutary.
In the meantime, the man whom he had dismissed from his presence so abruptly went out to one of the several backdoors of the house, and looked about, casting his eyes over the wood, which there came near the house. For a minute or two he seemed to be looking for something and not discovering it; but then, he beckoned with his finger, and a dark man, in a long great-coat, came across from under the trees and joined him.
They spoke in low tones, but eagerly, for about five minutes; and at last the dark man said, "No; we had better work separate. I will manage it, you'll see; and you can do the same if you do but frighten him enough. I must speak with the woman first; but I'll be back in an hour, if you think he'll be alone then."
"I dare say he will," answered the valet, "there are not many people come here now; but if there should be any one, you can wait about till they are gone."
"Very well," replied the other; and with a nod and a low laugh, he turned away, and left the Italian standing at the door.
CHAPTER XLVI.
Chandos Winslow sat in the little village inn at Elmsly, with his keen old solicitor from S----; who had, as the reader has seen, just mingled in a note to Sir William Winslow, a certain degree of lawyer-like formality, with an affection of commonplace ease, which he thought was masterly in its kind. They were awaiting the reply; and the lawyer calculated upon either one or two courses being adopted by the baronet to meet the pungent contents of his missive. "Sir William," he said, addressing Chandos, "will, I imagine, either beg to know where the will is supposed to be concealed, promising to cause search to be made himself; or else he will roughly refer us to his solicitors in London. Mark my words, if he does not. At all events, that last hit of our's yesterday--coming in, and finding the rough draught of the will in Roberts's handwriting, amongst the papers in the cabinet left to you with the other things--was capital. Hang me, Mr. Winslow, if I did not think for a minute that it was the will itself. However, as it is, we shall have an excellent case of it; and I should not wonder if it were to go through every court in England, up to the House of Lords."
"A pleasant prospect," said Chandos, drily; and he fell into the silence of expectation.
"Is Mr. Chandos Winslow here?" asked a good, clear, round voice, upon the stairs about five minutes after; and starting up, Chandos opened the door, when, to his surprise, he beheld Lockwood with the little boy, Tim Stanley.