"He's not going to, Molly," interrupted the secretary. Then, after a pause, "Why did you put the spur into Nigger?" he asked, curiously.
"You saw, did you?" The girl stared at him miserably. "Because I was a little fool: because I was mad with him—because I loved him, and he called himself John Marston." She rose, and laughed a little wildly. "And then when Nigger really did bolt I was glad—glad: and when I saw him beside me, I could have sung for joy. I knew he'd come—and he did. And now I could kill myself."
And staunch old David Dawlish—uncle by right of purchase with many sweets in years gone by, if not by blood—was still thinking it over when the door of her room banged upstairs.
"A whisky and soda, Hubert," he remarked, as the latter joined him, "is clearly indicated."
"We'll have trouble with him, David," grunted the Master. "Damned quixotic young fool. He's got no right to get killed officially: it upsets all one's plans. Probably have to pass an Act of Parliament to bring him to life again."
"Leave it to Molly, old man." The secretary measured out his tot. "Leave it all to her."
"I never do anything else," sighed Sir Hubert. "What is worrying me is young Dawson."
"There's nothing really in that, is there?" David Dawlish looked a little anxiously at his old friend: as has been said before, he was no lover of young Dawson.
"There's a blood chestnut stone-dead at the bottom of a pit," returned the other. "However——"
"Quite," assented Dawlish. "Leave it to Molly: leave it all to her."