“Be I master in my own house, or be you, young man?”
At that Agatha took his arm.
“Dear Uncle, John is right. ’Twould make Aunt Mary so unhappy if she knew.”
“Gi’ me pen an’ ink,” he replied with all the obstinacy of the peasant.
The ink-pot stood on the window-ledge, near the open casement. Timothy was staring at Agatha. John, standing close to the window, deftly emptied the ink-pot without being perceived.
“No,” said Agatha.
“I says—yes.”
John held up the ink-pot.
“There’s no ink in the pot, Mr. Farleigh, not a drop.” He held the ink-pot upside down, as proof positive.
“No ink—no ink,” he mumbled, dazed again and irresolute. Agatha pushed him gently toward his chair. He sank into it, still mumbling. John’s face softened; Agatha’s assumed a hard expression. The silence was broken by voices outside. Timothy took no notice.