“Afraid? Why?”
“Because she knew some secret of theirs.”
“Secret! What secret?” asked Brandon.
“You know, Sir, I suppose,” said Philips, meekly.
Brandon had carried Asgeelo with him, as he was often in the habit of doing on his journeys. After his interview with Philips he stood outside on the veranda of the village inn for some time, and then went around through the village, stopping at a number of houses. Whatever it was that he was engaged in, it occupied him for several hours, and he did not get back to the inn till midnight.
On the following morning he sent up to the Hall, but Potts had not yet returned. Philips came to tell him that he had just received a telegraphic dispatch informing him that Potts would be back that day about one o’clock. This intelligence at last seemed to promise something definite.
Brandon found enough to occupy him during the morning among the people of the neighborhood. He seemed to know every body, and had something to say to every one. Yet no one looked at him or spoke to him unless he took the initiative. Last of all, he went to the tailor’s, where he spent an hour.
Asgeelo had been left at the inn, and sat there upon a bench outside, apparently idle and aimless. At one o’clock Brandon returned and walked up and down the veranda.
In about half an hour his attention was attracted by the sound of wheels. It was Potts’s barouche, which came rapidly up the road. In it was Potts and a young lady.
Brandon stood outside of the veranda, on the steps, in such a position as to be most conspicuous, and waited there till the carriage should reach the place. Did his heart beat faster as he recognized that form, as he marked the settled despair which had gathered over that young face—a face that had the fixed and unalterable wretchedness which marks the ideal face of the Mater Dolorosa?