“I’ve as good a right to be here as any one else, I suppose,” he said. “I heard of my uncle’s death—and—and—I came to ascertain if there was any truth in the report.”
“You heard of my beloved uncle’s death!” cried Miss Sarah de Crespigny, peering sharply at her nephew from under the shadow of a pent-house-like garden-hood, in which she had invested herself before venturing into the night air. “How could you have heard of the sad event? My sister and I gave special orders that no report should go abroad until to-morrow morning.”
Mr. Darrell did not care to say that one of the Woodlands servants was in his pay; and that the same servant, being no other than Brooks, the gardener, had galloped over to Hazlewood, to communicate the tidings of his master’s death, before starting for Windsor.
“I did hear of it,” Launcelot said, “and that’s enough. I came to ascertain if it was true.”
“But you were going away from the house when I saw you!” said Mr. Monckton, rather suspiciously.
“I was not going away from the house, for I had not been to the house,” Launcelot answered, in the same tone as before.
He spoke in a sulky, grudging manner, because he knew that he was telling a deliberate lie. He was a man who always did wrong acts under protest, as being forced to do them by the injustice of the world; and held society responsible for all his errors.
“Have you seen my wife?” Gilbert asked, still suspiciously.
“No. I have only this moment come. I have not seen anybody.”
“I must have missed her,” muttered the lawyer, with an anxious air. “I must have missed her between this and Tolldale. Nobody saw her leave the house. She went out without leaving any message, and I guessed at once that she had come up here. It’s very odd.”