The young man glanced at him sharply and left the room.
Ten minutes spent in deep thought were passed by Garstang, who then rose, replaced the papers in the tin case, and crossed and rang the bell.
“Send Mr Harry here.”
“He went out as soon as he left your room, sir.”
“Thank you; that will do.” Then, as the door closed upon the clerk, Garstang said softly:
“So that’s it; then it is quite time to act.”
Chapter Four.
“Will that Doctor never come!” muttered plump Mrs Wilton, who had been for the past ten minutes running from her niece’s bedside to one of the front casement windows of the fine old Kentish Manor House, to watch the road through the park. “He might have come from London by this time. There, it’s of no use; it’s fate, and fate means disappointment. She’ll die; I’m sure she’ll die, and all that money will go to those wretched Morrisons. Why did he go out to the farms this morning? Any other morning would have done; and Claud away, too. Was ever woman so plagued?—Yes, what is it? Oh, it’s you, Eliza. How is she?”