“Send him here—at once.”
The girl hurried out, and the doctor paced the room.
“If I am wrong, I shall never forgive myself. I can never look her in the face again. Good heavens!—good heavens! I must, have been mad and blind, and an utter scoundrel, to think such things of—Oh, what a villain I have been!”
Just then, there was a heavy footstep in the passage, and the old gardener tapped at the door.
“Come in,” cried the doctor, running to meet him; and as the old man entered, he caught him by the arm. “Quick!” he cried—“tell me—speak out, man—the truth.”
“Ay, sir, I will,” muttered the old fellow.
“Who—who—now speak out; keep nothing back; I am your master’s trusted friend. Who was in the summer-house last night with Mr Prayle?”
“That poor foolish little wench, Fanny, sir; and—”
“Fool, fool, fool!” cried the doctor, stamping upon the floor.
“Ay, that’s so, sir; that’s so; and she’ll know better soon, let’s hope.”