“Why, Horace, old man, this is not like you,” cried Salis, as they were going down to the lodge gate.
“Like me!” cried North, turning upon him with a searching look, and reading in his eyes his thorough ignorance of the state of affairs. “No, it is not, old boy. I’m ill. My head aches fit to split, and the sight of that man, now my nerves are on the rack, exasperates me.”
“Well, never mind. It was very good of you to get up and come; but, all the same, I’m glad you did, for it has set my mind at rest as to danger. There’s no danger—you are sure?”
“Sure? Yes. He has the physique of a bull. Curse him!”
“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!” roared Salis, laughing in the most undignified manner, and then raising his eyes to encounter the fierce gaze of his friend.
“What are you laughing at?” cried North angrily.
“At Tom Candlish—the noble Sir Thomas! It’s comic, now that I know there is no danger. Why, Horace, old fellow, don’t you know how it happened?”
North paused as he stared wildly at Leo’s brother.
“Don’t I know how it happened?” he faltered.
“It’s over some love affair, and the scoundrel has been caught.”