Mr. Scunthorpe nodded. “That’s it,” he said. “Blown up at Point Non Plus. Poor fellow knocked into horse-nails!”
Arabella’s head was by this time in such a whirl that she was uncertain whether her unfortunate brother had fallen into the river, or had been injured in some explosion, or was, more mildly, suffering from an internal disorder. Her pulse was tumultuous; the most agitating reflections made it impossible for her to speak above a whisper. She managed to utter: “Is he dreadfully hurt? Have they taken him to a hospital?”
“Not a case for a hospital, ma’am,” said Mr. Scunthorpe. “More likely to be screwed up.”
This pronouncement, conjuring up the most horrid vision of a coffin, almost deprived Arabella of her senses. Her eyes started at Mr. Scunthorpe in a look of painful enquiry. “Screwed up?” she repeated faintly.
“The Fleet,” corroborated Mr. Scunthorpe, sadly shaking his head. “Told him how it would be. Wouldn’t listen. Mind, if the thing had come off right, he could have paid down his dust, and no harm done. Trouble was, it didn’t. Very rarely does, if you ask me.”
The gist of this speech, gradually penetrating to Arabella’s understanding, brought some of the colour back to her face. She sank into a chair, her legs trembling violently, and said. “Do you mean he is in debt? ”
Mr. Scunthorpe looked at her in mild surprise. “Told you so, ma’am!” he pointed out.
“Good God, how could I possibly guess—? Oh, I have been so afraid that something of the sort must happen! Thank you for coming to me, sir! You did very right!”
Mr. Scunthorpe blushed. “Always happy to be of service!”
“I must go to him!” Arabella said. “Will you be so kind as to escort me? I do not care to take my maid on such an errand, and I think perhaps I should not go alone.”