“Yes; and a large sum was missing—a very large sum.”
“That is the worst argument yet,” said the doctor. “But, pooh, pooh, my dear sir, the old man died from an overdose of chloral. My colleague and I were satisfied about that. There, don’t look so white.”
“Do I look white?” said Glyddyr, picking up the glass he had used and draining the last drops. “Oh, I feel much better now. But, Doctor, what do you think of it all? They’ll arrest that young man, I suppose. It would be very horrible if he were to be tried and condemned to death.”
“Horrible!”
“Do you think he will be taken?”
“No.”
“I’m—I’m glad of that,” faltered Glyddyr, with his trembling hands playing about his watch chain. “So horrible. He was a friend, you see, of Miss Gartram’s. Of course, with such a charge as that against him, he could never speak to her again.”
“Look here, Glyddyr,” said the Doctor, “you and I may as well understand each other.”
“What do you mean?” cried Glyddyr, sinking back in his chair.
“That we have somehow become friends, and we may as well continue so. You mean to marry Claude Gartram?”