“Oh, yes; very well indeed.”
She sighed as she spoke. She felt completely baffled by what had occurred; terribly prostrated by the defeat which had befallen her. There was no hope, then. This base and treacherous man was always to triumph, however wicked, however criminal.
“Is it very late?” she asked, presently.
“Yes, very late—past one o’clock.”
The husband and wife walked homewards in silence. The road seemed even drearier than before to Eleanor, though this time she had a companion in her dismal journey. But this time despair was gnawing at her breast; she had been supported before by excitement, buoyed up by hope.
They reached Tolldale at last. The butler admitted them. He had sent all the other servants to bed, and had sat up alone to receive his master. Even upon this night of bewilderment Gilbert Monckton endeavoured to keep up appearances.
“We have been to Woodlands,” he said to the old servant. “Mr. de Crespigny is dead.”
He had no doubt that his own and his wife’s absence had given rise to wonderment in the quiet household; and he thought by this means to set all curiosity at rest. But the drawing-room door opened while he was speaking, and Laura rushed into the hall.
“Oh, my goodness gracious,” she exclaimed, “here you are at last. What I have suffered this evening! Oh I what agonies I have suffered this evening, wondering what had happened, and thinking of all sorts of horrid things.”
“But, my dear Laura, why didn’t you go to bed?” asked Mr. Monckton.