"Nothing—I have received a letter from Cornwall which obliges me to——"
His hollow voice died away into a hoarse whisper before he could finish the sentence.
"Lady Bulstrode—or Sir John—is ill perhaps?" hazarded Lucy.
Talbot pointed to his white lips and shook his head. The gesture might mean anything. He could not speak. The hall was full of visitors and children going into dinner. The little people were to dine with their seniors that day, as an especial treat and privilege of the season. The door of the dining-room was open, and Talbot saw the gray head of Archibald Floyd dimly visible at the end of a long vista of lights and silver and glass and evergreens. The old man had his nephews and nieces and their children grouped about him; but the place at his right hand, the place Aurora was meant to fill, was vacant. Captain Bulstrode turned away from that gaily-lighted scene and ran up the staircase to his room, where he found his servant waiting with his master's clothes laid out, wondering why he had not come to dress.
The man fell back at the sight of Talbot's face, ghastly in the light of the wax-candles on the dressing-table.
"I am going away, Philman," said the captain, speaking very fast, and in a thick indistinct voice. "I am going down to Cornwall by the express to-night, if I can get to Town in time to catch the train. Pack my clothes and come after me. You can join me at the Paddington Station. I shall walk up to Beckenham, and take the first train for Town. Here, give this to the servants for me, will you?"
He took a confused heap of gold and silver from his pocket, and dropped it into the man's hand.
"Nothing wrong at Bulstrode, I hope, sir?" said the servant. "Is Sir John ill?"
"No, no; I've had a letter from my mother—I—you'll find me at the Great Western."
He snatched up his hat, and was hurrying from the room; but the man followed him with his greatcoat.