“She has not sent—” began Nance hurriedly.
“What you’ve got to understand—you Renshaw—” muttered Adrian, in a strange hoarse voice, clenching and unclenching his fingers.
Brand interrupted them both. “Pardon me,” he cried, “you do not wish, I suppose, either of you, to cause any serious shock to my mother? It’s absurd of her, of course, and old-fashioned, and all that sort of thing; but it would actually kill her—” he rose as he spoke and uttered the words clearly and firmly. “It would actually kill her to get any hint of what we’re discussing now. So, if you’ve no objection, we’ll continue this discussion in the work-shop.” He moved towards the door.
Sorio followed him with a rapid stride. “You must understand, Renshaw—” he began.
“If it’ll hurt your mother so,” cried Nance hurriedly, “what must Linda be suffering? You didn’t think of this, Mr. Renshaw, when you—”
Brand swung round on his heel. “You shall say all this to me, all that you wish to say—everything, do you hear, everything! Only it must and shall be where she cannot overhear us. Wait till we’re alone. We shall be alone in the work-shop.”
“If this ‘work-shop’ of yours,” muttered Sorio savagely, seizing him by the arm, “turns out to be one of your English tricks, you’d better—”
“Silence, you fool!” whispered the other. “Can’t you stop him, Miss Herrick? It’ll be pure murder if my mother hears this!”
Nance came quickly between them. “Lead on, Mr. Renshaw,” she said. “We’ll follow you.”
He led them across the hall and down a long dimly lit passage. At the end of this there was a heavily panelled door. Brand took a key from his pocket and after some ineffectual attempts turned the lock and stood aside to let them enter. He closed the door behind them, leaving the key on the outside. The “work-shop” Brand had spoken of turned out to be nothing more or less than the old private chapel of Oakguard, disassociated, however, for centuries from any religious use.