The evening came on, the heat of the day was over, the sun faded.
“What a pity we must go back to London,” said Sibyl. “I don’t think I ever had such a lovely day before.”
“We shall soon be back here,” replied Mrs. Ogilvie. “I shall see about furnishing next week at the latest, and we can come down whenever we are tired of town.”
“That will be lovely,” said Sibyl. “Oh, won’t my pony love cantering over the roads here!”
When they landed at the little quay just outside the inn, the landlord came down to meet them. He held a telegram in his hand.
“This came for you, madam, in your absence,” he said, and he gave the telegram to Mrs. Ogilvie. She tore it open. It was from her lawyer, Mr. Acland, and ran as follows:
“Ominous rumors with regard to Lombard Deeps have reached me. Better not go any further at present with the purchase of Silverbel.”
Mrs. Ogilvie’s face turned pale. She looked up and met the fixed stare of her little daughter and of Rochester. Lady Helen had turned away. She was leaning over the rails of the little garden and looking down into the swiftly flowing river.
Mrs. Ogilvie’s face grew hard. She crushed up the telegram in her hand.