Chapter Eighteen.
James Wilton stood for a few moments staring searchingly at his son. Then, in a sudden access of anger, he rushed to the library door, flung it open, came back, caught the young man by the shoulders, and began to back him in.
“Here, what are you doing, guv’nor? Leave off! Don’t do that. Here, why don’t you answer my question?”
“Hold your tongue, idiot! Do you suppose I want all the servants to hear what is said? Go in there.”
He gave him a final thrust, and then hurried out to hasten upstairs to where Mrs Wilton stood holding on by the heavy balustrade which crossed the hall like a gallery, and rocking herself to and fro.
“Oh, James, I knew it—I knew it!” she sobbed out. “She’s dead—she’s dead!”
“Hush! Hold your tongue!” cried her husband. “Do you want to alarm the house? You’ll have all the servants here directly. Come along.”
He drew her arm roughly beneath his, and hurried her down the stairs into the library, thrust her into her son’s arms, and then hurried to the hall table for the candle, ending by shutting himself in with them.
“Oh, Claud, Claud, my darling boy!” wailed Mrs Wilton.