“Yes, of course it is!” cried the doctor savagely. “They’ve got it in the London papers, condensed from the County Press—a filthy penny rag. Just look here—made into a sensation paragraph.
“‘Eaten of Rats.—A shocking discovery was made at Somesham on Monday last. A rather eccentric gentleman, named Hardon, residing entirely alone at a short distance from the town, was found in bed with his lower extremities horribly mutilated by the rats which infest the place. The medical evidence at the inquest showed that death had probably taken place some eight-and-forty hours before the body was discovered; while the bottle of laudanum and teaspoon at the bedside pointed to an end which the post-mortem examination proved to have been the case; an overdose of the subtle extract having evidently been the cause of death. The deceased was without servants; for, in consequence of a burglary committed at the house shortly before this discovery, his housekeeper had left him, and her place remained unsupplied. As may be supposed, this tragic affair, following so closely upon the burglary, has caused intense excitement throughout the neighbourhood.’
“Isn’t it disgusting?” exclaimed the doctor, after a few moments’ pause; while during the reading he had not displayed the slightest emotion, but read the paragraph from beginning to end without faltering. Receiving no answer, he looked up to see Mrs Hardon sitting staring at him with a horrified aspect, while her fingers were stopping her ears.
“O, Tom!” she gasped at last, “haven’t we had enough of that horrid affair lately without bringing it up again? I shall be glad when it’s all over, and we begin to look upon it as a thing of the past. I declare I shall never like to use any of the money; I shall fancy a curse hangs to it. But do you think Septimus is dead?”
“Of course I do,” said the doctor; “and if he is not, what does it matter?”
“Nothing at all, I suppose,” replied Mrs Hardon; “but really, Tom, it came upon me like a thunder-clap. Was that what poor Octavius sent for you about—to tell you that? I often thought there must be some reason for his long-continued obstinacy. What did he say to you about it?”
“Don’t ask questions,” said the doctor abruptly. “It is enough for you to know that it is so, and that the money comes at a time when we want it badly.”
“Then we have no business to have been wanting it badly!” exclaimed Mrs Hardon; “and I shall make it my business to go to Keening’s one of these days, and ask them the state of your affairs.”
“Yes, you had better!” snarled the doctor, displaying a bright speck of the gold setting of his teeth.
“But such a saint as poor Lavinia always seemed!” said Mrs Hardon. “I should never have thought it of her; and if it was not that the poor thing is dead and gone, I should have called it quite disgraceful. But there, we can’t afford to talk about such matters, I’m sure;” and she began to rock herself to and fro in her chair and to sob: “O, Tom! you drove that poor girl away,—you did. She would never have left if—”