'Flight?'
'Yes; I must quit this place ere I am arrested.'
'For where?'
'God alone knows.'
Alison interlaced her fingers again in mute misery.
'You look worn and weary, Alison,' said Sir Ranald, observing the pinched expression of her little white face.
'I am both, indeed!'
'Then go to bed, child; think over all I have urged, think of what is before us, think well, and give me a final answer in the morning.'
She kissed him with lips that were cold and quivering, and retired to her room, while he threw open his bureau, drew the lamp towards him, spread a sheet of paper with a vague idea that he was about to make some monetary calculations, and mechanically dipped a pen in the ink-bottle.
Then he threw it down, and, resting his aching head upon his delicate and wrinkled hands, sank into a kind of stupor of thought.