“No, Sir Harold—no!”
“Thank God! You frightened me, Atkins. I can bear anything, now that I know they are alive. What has happened? They have not met with an accident? Don’t tell me, Atkins, that my wife, my beautiful young wife, is insane through grief at my supposed death?”
Atkins groaned aloud.
“No, no,” he said, grating his teeth and clenching his hands. “It is not that.”
“What is it then? Speak, for God’s sake. The suspense is killing me!”
“I have bad news for you, Sir Harold,” said the solicitor tremblingly. “Let me give you a glass of wine—”
Sir Harold clutched the solicitor’s arm, his burning eyes fixed upon the solicitor’s face.
“Speak!” he said hoarsely.
“I will, if you will sit down.”
Sir Harold dropped silently into his chair.