Meanwhile Sir Lionel had gone away. Leaving Lady Dudleigh in the room, he had gone down stairs, and after a few hurried words with the doctor, he left the house and entered the coach, which drove back to the station.
All the way he was in the utmost glee, rubbing his hands, slapping his thighs, chuckling to himself, laughing and cheering.
“Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!” he laughed. “Outwitted! The keeper—the keeper caught! Ha, ha, ha! Why, she'll never get out—never! In for life, Lionel, my boy! Mad! Why, by this time she's a raving maniac! Ha, ha, ha! She swear against me! Who'd believe a madwoman, an idiot, a lunatic, a bedlamite, a maniac—a howling, frenzied, gibbering, ranting, raving, driveling, maundering, mooning maniac! And now for the boy next—the parricide! Ha, ha, ha! Arrest him! No. Shut him up here—both—with my friend Morton—both of them, mother and son, the two—ha, ha, ha!—witnesses! One maniac! two maniacs! and then I shall go mad with joy, and come here to live, and there shall be three maniacs! Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha-a-a-a-a-a-a!”
Sir Lionel himself seemed mad now.
On leaving the coach, however, he became calmer, and taking the first train that came up, resumed his journey.
CHAPTER XLVI. — THE BEDSIDE OF DALTON.
Frederick Dalton remained in his prostrate condition, with no apparent change either for the better or for the worse, and thus a month passed.
One morning Dudleigh requested an interview with Edith.