“If,” he said, addressing himself to Father O’Sullivan, “you would let me know the day and hour of young Ellerslie’s funeral I should be obliged. He was a friend of my son’s.”
And in those words the old man blotted out, forgave, the wrong Hugh had done, as Peter himself would have wished.
An hour later Goring came in with a tray on [Pg 287]which were a tumbler and a jug of hot water.
General Carden looked up. “Which wine did I drink to-night?” he demanded.
“The ’54 port, sir,” replied Goring respectfully.
“Hmm!” General Carden beat a faint, delicate tattoo with his fingers on the table. “I thought so. How much more is there?”
“About eight bottles, sir. Seven or eight I should say.”
General Carden coughed. “You need not use any more of it at present, not till”—he coughed again—“Mr. Peter comes home.”
The most perfectly trained of butlers might, perhaps, be excused a slight start at such a statement, taking into consideration, of course, previous circumstances. Goring unquestionably started. Then the mask was on again, impassive, impenetrable.
General Carden still kept up that light tattoo. He had a statement to make. In all fairness to Peter it had to be made. It was, however, peculiarly difficult to put into words.