“Would you like me to send a message?”
“Yes—no—I hardly know what to say.”
Mrs Hampton stuck her ball of wool on the point of the shining knitting-pin she held, and spun it round for a few times.
“It would be satisfactory for everybody to know,” she said at last. “Ring the bell, my dear, and I’ll send a message.”
The message was despatched, and after a long discussion as to the probabilities of reaching Saul Harrington before he left for Switzerland, and how soon an answer might be expected, they settled down to the daily routine of their lives. One duty now was Gertrude’s nursing of the injured dog, who seemed, as he lay on the soft hay bed in the stable, very near his end. He lay for hours together without stirring, till he heard his mistress’ step, and then he uttered a low whine, and feebly raised his head as his eyes sought hers before he lowered his muzzle again, as if it was too heavy for the strength he had left.
Gertrude let many a tear fall upon the poor brute’s head as she patted it gently and bandaged the wound, the dog submitting to what must have been a painful operation without so much as a whine, till the time came when he could get his head in his mistress’ lap, and sink into a kind of stupor more than sleep.
That day wore by, and there was no answer to the telegram. Then came the dinner hour, and with it the old lawyer, but not alone, Doctor Lawrence having once more accompanied him down to The Mynns.
Their looks spoke volumes, but little was said till they were seated over the dessert; when, in response to one of Gertrude’s inquiring looks, the Doctor leaned towards her, took her hand, and said gravely:
“My dear child, I have said nothing, because I seem to have nothing to say.”
“But tell me what you think,” said Gertrude imploringly.