The automobile for which she had telephoned was already waiting. She entered hurriedly, and bade the chauffeur drive at top speed to Asherton Hall. The cold air outside in the darkening twilight revived her, and brought fresh energy. Her anger against her father grew with every turn of the wheels, and her rage was such that she almost contemplated killing him. Indeed, the vague idea was rioting in her mind that, rather than go to prison, she would die, first wreaking some terrible vengeance on the miser, who had ruined the happiness of 313 her married life and brought disaster on all belonging to her.
On her arrival, there were only three windows lighted in the whole front of the great house; but outside the entrance there were the blinking lamps of two carriages, one a shabby hired vehicle, the other a smart brougham, which she recognized at once as belonging to her father’s family physician.
Her heart sank with an awful dread. If her father were ill, and unable to give attention to her affairs, it spelled ruin.
The door was opened by Mrs. Ripon, who admitted Mrs. Swinton in silence. The hall was lighted by a single oil lamp, which only served to intensify the desolation and gloom of the dingy, faded house.
“I want to see my father at once, Mrs. Ripon,” the distracted woman declared.
“The doctor is with him, madam. He won’t be long. Will you step into the library? Mr. Barnby is there.”
The mention of that name caused her another fright. She was inclined to avoid the bank-manager. Curiosity, however, conquered, and she resolved to face him, in the hope of hearing why he had come to her father.
On her entrance, Mr. Barnby bowed with frigid politeness. 314
“You have seen my father, Mr. Barnby. Is he well?” she asked, eagerly.
“He looked far from well. I was shocked at the change in him.”