(ANDREW turns round, an odd, rather seedy, carelessly-dressed man, a little over forty, rather gaunt, longish hair, an intelligent face with something slightly sinister about it. He shows signs of great recent sorrow and distress.)
MARK. Andrew, what is it?
ANDR. I’d rather not tell you, Mr. Docwray.
MARK. Nothing has happened to Mr. Feversham?
ANDR. No.
MARK. Come! Come! What’s the matter?
ANDR. My daughter——
MARK. What ails her? Where is she?
ANDR. Over at the church.