“Look here,” said Guest sharply, “have you told anybody about it?”
“No, sir; not yet.”
“Then for Heaven’s sake don’t, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, in a low, hurried tone. “It was, perhaps, only a sudden paroxysm. You say you like him.”
“Which indeed I do, sir.”
“Then pray be silent. If such a report were spread it would be his ruin.”
“Yes, sir, I thought of all that, and doctors signing things, and keepers coming to take him to shut him up in cells, with chains, and darkness, and howlings, and gnashing his teeth. Oh, my poor dear! my poor dear! Such a bonnie, good, lovable gentleman as you were!”
Mrs Brade threw up her apron to her face and burst out into such a genuine passion of sobs and tears that Guest was touched, and he rose and placed his hand upon her arm.
“Hush, hush!” he whispered; “don’t take on like that. Perhaps it is only due to excitement, and he’ll soon come round.”
“Do you think so, sir?” cried the woman, dropping her apron.
“I do, indeed, if he is kept quiet. Why, if it was known—”