“Phew! I’m nearly suffocated,” he cried. “There, that will do, mother. Ah! Eve.”
“But why did you leave the works, my boy?” cried Mrs Glaire.
“Sick of it,” cried Richard, hastily. “I’ll stay there no more. I’ll open to-morrow. Curse the place, it’s horrible of a night, and I’ve finished all the wine. What’s the matter with Eve?”
“But,” cried Mrs Glaire, evading the question, and speaking excitedly, “you must not stay, Richard; you must leave again to-night—now, at once.”
“Where for?” said Richard, grimly.
“London—France—anywhere,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, piteously.
“Nova Scotia, or the North Pole,” said Richard, savagely. “Damn it, mother, I won’t hide from the curs any more. Here have I been for days in that wretched hole.”
“But there’s mischief brewing, Dick, my boy, I am sure there is. You must leave at once.”
“Let it brew,” he cried. “But who was that left the house as I came in?”
Mrs Glaire did not answer, only looked appealingly to Eve.