“No,” cried Lydia, turning upon her fiercely. “He was too true a man.”
“I’m afraid there has been an attempt made by burglars,” said the old lawyer, “and that our young friend has been trying to defend the place; but—but he was locked in here—the key was in my table—and—and—I’m afraid I’m growing very old—things seem so much confused now.”
He put his hand to his head for a few moments and looked helplessly from one to the other. Then his customary sang froid seemed to have returned.
“This is not a sight for you, ladies,” he said. “Pray go back.”
“I am not afraid, Mr Girtle,” said Katrine, with a slight shudder as she looked eagerly about the room.
For her answer, Lydia took water from the wash-stand, and began to bathe the blood-smeared face, kneeling down by Capel’s side.
Just then Preenham entered with decanter and glass, the former clattering against the latter, as he poured out some of the contents.
Holding a little of the brandy to Capel’s clenched teeth, Mr Girtle managed to trickle through a few drops at a time, while Lydia continued the bathing, and Katrine stood, like some beautiful statue, gazing down at them with wrinkled brow and clasped hands.
By this time, the knowledge that something was wrong had reached the women-servants, and they had both come to the door.
“No, no; keep them away, Preenham,” said Mr Girtle, in answer to offers of assistance. “You go down, too, and be at the door, ready to let the doctor in.”