“And there is no hope?”
The doctor shook his head, and laid his hand upon the young man’s arm, signing to him to quit the room.
Tom followed mechanically.
“So horrible!” he said, as soon as they were in the drawing-room. “We were playing billiards together till late last night, while now—Yes, what is it?”
“I beg pardon. Sir Thomas,” said the old butler softly, “the housekeeper said would you and Dr North like a cup of tea?”
“Sir Thomas!” The title made Tom Candlish thrill as he stood gazing at the speaker. So soon! Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!
He was Sir Thomas Candlish. The estate was his and the rent-roll of at least five thousand a year. Last night he was enraged at the possibility of trouble arising from Thompson. Now he was a free man: he was rich.
And his brother?
It was his secret. And why should he trouble about the sudden death? It was an accident, and his own counsel could easily be kept. There was none to reveal the truth. The dead could never speak.
As he mused like this, and the butler brought in the tea, Dr North was lost in a fit of musing, for, like a flash, the scientific fancy upon which he had so long pondered came to him, so that for the moment he stood breathless and gazing wildly at the door which seemed to open before him.