“Has my brother been here, Mildred?” he asked.
“Not he.”
“No letters for me?” asked he.
“Nothing, sir.”
“You never get a lift when you want it—never,” said Charles, with a bitter groan; “never was a fellow driven harder to the wall—never a fellow nearer his wits’ ends. I’m very glad, Mildred, I have some one to talk to—one old friend. I don’t know what to do—I can’t make up my mind to anything, and if I hadn’t you just now, I think I should go distracted. I have a great deal to ask you. That lady, you say, has been in her room some time—did she talk loud—was she angry—was there any noise?”
“No, sir.”
“Who saw her?”
“No one but myself, and the man as drove her.”
“Thank God for that. Does she know about my—did she hear that your mistress is in the house?”
“I said she was Master Harry’s wife, and told her, Lord forgive me, that he was here continually, and you hardly ever, and then only for a few hours at a time.”