“I don’t know. Somehow I don’t like this place.”
“Buy it off you, if you like. But, I say, hadn’t you better ring and ask after your wife?”
About this time, as John Trevithick sat cogitating over his memoranda, seeking for the light where all was dark, the door opened, and Mary came in.
“Ah! How is she now?”
“Very ill. I have left her for a few minutes in the drawing-room with Sarah Woodham,” said Mary, with a catching of the breath. “Oh, John, how cruel of Chris Lisle to come and do that.”
“I don’t know,” said Trevithick thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I should have acted the same. But there: the mischief is done. I’m glad you’ve come. I wanted to see you before I went.”
“Before you went? Oh!” exclaimed Mary, catching at his hand, “you must not go.”
“Not go? Oh, I’m not wanted here.”
“You don’t know,” cried Mary excitedly. “Don’t leave us, John. I’m frightened. It all seems so horrible. Suppose Chris Lisle were to come?”
“Chris Lisle would not be so mad.”