“Speak—sir—I command you!” exclaimed Trevelyan, in a tone of terrible excitement. “Trifle not with me—or I shall do you a mischief. Where—where, I ask for the last time, is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“In——But you will kill me, my lord——”
“Speak, villain! Where is he?” demanded the infuriate noble.
“In a mad-house!” was the reply, absolutely wrung by terror from the clerk.
A piercing scream burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton—and in another moment she fell heavily upon the carpet, with a dead sound as if it were a corpse that had rolled from the sofa.
Trevelyan—stupified by the astounding words that had fallen upon his ear—let go his hold on the wretched clerk, on whom he stood gazing for a few moments as if he had become petrified—turned into a statue—paralysed—motionless. But suddenly he seemed to be struck with the conviction that Mrs. Sefton needed his assistance; and, forgetting in the agitation and excitement of his feelings to keep a watch upon the clerk, he hastened to raise the prostrate lady from the floor.
He placed her upon the sofa, and sprinkled water (of which there happened to be a decanter full on the table) upon her countenance. In a few minutes she opened her eyes, and gazed wildly around her.
Trevelyan drew back a few paces so that the air might circulate freely about her—when, suddenly remembering the clerk, he looked hurriedly round.
But the villain had stolen away!
At this moment a bitter groan burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton; for a remembrance of all that had just occurred came rapidly to her mind—and the horrible word “mad-house” seemed to echo in her ears and touch a chord that vibrated with a feeling of anguish to her very brain.