“She may have gone to bed, and left the window open,” Hartley whispered.
He shook his head, and a terrible sensation of despair beat down upon him.
“Poor Horace!” he muttered. “He must know more than I give him credit for. This explains his absence, and the strangeness of his ways.”
He walked back into the drawing-room, and, without closing the window, went up to where Mary sat, waiting in an agony of suspense.
“Oh, Hartley!” she said, as she saw the look of agony in his eyes.
“It would be cruel to keep anything from you, Mary, in your helpless state.”
“Yes, dear; pray—pray, speak!”
“It is quite true,” he said laconically.
Mary’s breath, as she drew it hard, sounded like the inspiring of one in agony; and she clasped her brother’s hands tightly in hers.
“This can’t be the first time by many,” said Salis wearily. “Mary, dear, I’ve tried to do all that a brother could for you both, and I’ve been too weak and indulgent, I’m afraid.”