The cellaret was open, stimulants having been fetched from it for her ladyship’s use, and Tom hastily poured out some spirit into one of the glasses on the sideboard, and handed it to the baronet.
“Thanks,” he said—“better now; I think I’ll go home;” and bowing quietly to Tom, he slowly left the house.
Chapter Twenty Five.
In Pursuit.
“Poor old Wilters,” said Tom, as he heard the door close. “I didn’t think he was such a thorough gentleman. But this won’t do.”
He was so wound up by the excitement, and the feeling that everything now depended upon him that he seemed to forget that there was such a thing as fatigue.
“Now, gov’nor,” he said, hurrying into the library, where the old man had finished his port and cigar, and then laid his head upon his hand to sit and think of the little fair-haired girl who had played about his knees, and who had, as it were, been driven from him, to go—whither? who could tell?
“Eh? yes, Tom,” said the old man.