Sir Richard Arden had learned how matters were with Mr. Longcluse. He hesitated. Flight might provoke action of the kind for which there seemed no longer a motive.
In an agony of dubitation, as the day wore on, he was interrupted. Mr. Rooke, Mr. Longcluse's attorney, had called. There was no good in shirking a meeting. He was shown in.
“This is for you, Sir Richard,” said Mr. Rooke, presenting a large letter. “Mr. Longcluse wrote it about three hours ago, and requested me to place it in your own hand, as I now do.”
“It is not any legal paper——” began Sir Richard.
“I haven't an idea,” answered he. “He gave it to me thus. I had some things to do for him afterwards, and a call to make, at his desire, at Mr. David Arden's. When I got home I was sent for again. I suppose you heard the news?”
“No; what is it?”
“Oh, dear, really! They have heard it some time at Mr. Arden's. You didn't hear about Mr. Longcluse?”
“No, nothing, excepting what we all know—his arrest.”
The attorney's countenance darkened, and he said, dropping his voice as low as he would have given a message in church—