A minute later, as Mr Barclay lay staring wildly, the rough woman, whom he recalled now as one of the servants, and who had hurried from the room, returned, helping Adela to support a pallid-looking man, whose hands, face, and rough working clothes were daubed with clayey soil.
“Confound you! why didn’t you bring down the brandy?” he said harshly.—“Gently, girls, gently. That’s better. I’m half crushed.—Who’s that?”
“Visitor,” said one of Mr Barclay’s captors sourly. “What’s to be done?”
Mr Barclay looked wildly from one to the other, asking himself whether all this was some dream. Who were these men? Where the elderly Misses Mimpriss? And what was the meaning of Adela Mimpriss being on such terms with the injured man, who looked as if he had been working in some mine?
Their eyes met once, but she turned hers away directly, and held a glass of brandy to the injured man’s lips.
“That’s better,” he said. “I can talk now. I thought I was going to be smothered once.—Well, lads, the game’s up.”
“Why?” said one of the others sharply.
“Because it is. You won’t catch me there again if I know it; and here’s private inquiry at work from over the way.”
“Hold your tongue!” said the first man of the party. “There; he can’t help himself now. You watch him, Bell; and if he moves, give warning.”
The rough woman seated herself beside Mr Barclay and watched him fiercely. The two men crossed over to their companion; while Adela, still looking cold and angry, with brow wrinkled up, drew back to stand against the table and listen.