“She has come,” he said, walking up to the bed, and looking keenly down at the other. “Are you still of the same mind?”
The baronet nodded, and said: “Lose no time.”
Fillmore went back to the door, and immediately returned with Marion Lancaster on his arm. He led her to the bedside, and the baronet greeted her with a movement of the hand and arm, and a slight bend of the head, which, feeble though they were, somehow recalled the grand obeisances that Sir Francis Bendibow was wont to make in the days of his prosperity and renown.
“Sit down, my dear,” he said, indicating the chair at his side. “Very kind of you to come. You look fatigued.”
So indeed she did, with a fatigue that was more than bodily. “I am well enough,” she said looking at him gravely; and she sat down.
“Fillmore,” said the baronet, “will you remain outside a bit? Mrs. Lancaster and I are going to have a little private chat together.”
When the lawyer had withdrawn, Sir Francis altered his position so as to face Marion more fully, and said, “I had an odd impression the other day. I was at a place—Vauxhall, in fact—on business; and something happened there that upset me. I was senseless for a while, or nearly so: but I had an impression that I saw your face, and heard your voice. And afterwards, for a time, I fancied I heard and saw you again at intervals. It was in a room at an inn, somewhere, at last. That must have been all a fancy of mine—eh?”
“No, I was with you,” Marion replied. “I saw you when you fell: and I got a carriage and took you to an inn. I should have taken you to your own house: but a gentleman whom I happened to meet, and who assisted me, seemed to think it best not to do that.”
“Quite right of him, whoever he was,” said the baronet; “though, as things are to-day, it doesn’t make much difference, either. So ’twas really you? The gentleman was your husband, of course?”
“No: my husband knew nothing of my going there. I went there to meet you, Sir Francis.”