He did look worried—she had noticed it at once—but there was no opportunity to say more at the moment, as they had reached the lift.
Miss Culpepper came running out at the sound of Grace’s key in the lock.
“Oh, my dear, a gentleman has been with a mass of such beautiful flowers and a great basket of fruit!”
“I know. Here he is, come back to breakfast. Miss Culpepper—Mr. Austin Starr. Now go in to the fire, Austin, and make yourself at home—you’ll find Dear Brutus on the hearthrug, I expect—while I take my hat off.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Culpepper,” said Austin. “Mrs. Carling has just been telling me what a great comfort you are to her, and I can well believe it. We all hated her to be living here all alone. Why, did you expect me or is someone else coming?”
His quick eyes had noted that the table was laid for three persons, and already adorned with his own gifts.
Miss Culpepper paused in the act of laying another place, and put her finger to her lip mysteriously, with a significant glance towards the door.
“That’s Mr. Carling’s place,” she whispered. “It’s always laid ready for him at every meal. It pleases her, and I think it’s a beautiful idea really.”
Austin nodded sympathetically, but felt troubled nevertheless. The thought occurred to him that “if things went wrong with Roger”—the only way in which at present, even to himself, he would acknowledge the probability of Carling being convicted of the crime with which he was charged—Grace would surely die, or lose her reason.