“He’s—ha, ha, ha!—he is so fond of you that he talked of nothing else the whole way here. I like him for it.”
“I wish he had a better subject, John,” she said with an uneasy glance about the room—at Tackleton especially.
“A better subject!” cried the jovial John. “There’s no such thing. Come! Off with the great-coat, off with this thick shawl, off with the heavy wrappings! And now for a cozy half-hour by the fire. How would it please you, Mrs. Fielding, to have a game of cards, you and I? All right? Where are the cards, Dot—and will you let us have a cup of tea here if there’s any left, small wife?”
Soon the carrier and the old lady were deep within the game. At first the carrier looked about him sometimes with a smile, or now and then called Dot to peep over his shoulder to advise him on some knotty point. But soon he became so absorbed that he had neither eyes nor ears to spare, and his whole attention was upon the cards, and he thought of nothing else, until a hand was laid upon his shoulder.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” said Tackleton in a low voice, “but I want a word with you, please.”
“It’s my turn to deal,” returned the carrier. “Can you wait?”
“No,” said Tackleton. “Come on, man.”
There was an expression in his pale face which made John rise immediately, and ask him in a hurry what the matter was.
“Hush, John Peerybingle,” said Tackleton. “I am sorry for this. I am indeed. I have been afraid of it. I have suspected it from the first.”