“Preenham! Speak, man! At once!” said Mr Girtle, sternly.
“I woke at half-past seven, sir,” he said, in a trembling voice, “and wondered that I had not been called at seven. Mr Ramo, sir, always rose very early, and called me and Charles; but I was not surprised, for since master’s death, he has slept outside his door, I think—I’m almost sure, though I never said anything to—”
“Man, you are torturing us!” cried Capel.
“Give him time,” said Artis, who looked nervous and strange.
“Yes, let him speak,” said Katrine. “Go on, Mr Preenham, and tell us.”
“Thank you ma’am, I will,” said the butler; “but—but would you ladies go back to your room or the drawing-room, I’ve something—something—”
“I’m not a child,” said Katrine. “Lydia, dear, you had better go.”
“I will stay with you,” said Lydia, laying her hand upon Katrine’s arm; and after a helpless look round, and a motion of his hands, as if he washed them of any trouble that might come, the old butler went on.
“I didn’t take much notice, as we were late last night, but as soon as I was dressed, I knocked at Charles’ door—he sleeps in a turn-up bedstead in the servants’ hall.”
The old man directed this piece of information to those around him, and then went on.