"In the dinin'–room, sir; but please, sir, you mustn't––––"
The girl made a feeble effort to intercept Mr. Marchmont, in accordance with the steward's special orders; which were, that Paul should, upon no pretence whatever, be suffered to enter the house. But the artist snatched the candlestick from her hand, and went towards the dining–room, leaving her to stare after him in amazement.
Paul found his valet Peterson, taking what he called a snack, in the dining–room. A cloth was spread upon the corner of the table; and there was a fore–quarter of cold roast–lamb, a bottle of French brandy, and a decanter half–full of Madeira before the valet.
He started as his master entered the room, and looked up, not very respectfully, but with no unfriendly glance.
"Give me half a tumbler of that brandy, Peterson," said Mr. Marchmont.
The man obeyed; and Paul drained the fiery spirit as if it had been so much water. It was four–and–twenty hours since meat or drink had crossed his dry white lips.
"Why didn't you go away with the rest?" he asked, as he set down the empty glass.
"It's only rats, sir, that run away from a falling house. I stopped, thinkin' you'd be goin' away somewhere, and that you'd want me."
The solid and unvarnished truth of the matter was, that Peterson had taken it for granted that his master had made an excellent purse against this evil day, and would be ready to start for the Continent or America, there to lead a pleasant life upon the proceeds of his iniquity. The valet never imagined his master guilty of such besotted folly as to be unprepared for this catastrophe.
"I thought you might still want me, sir," he said; "and wherever you're going, I'm quite ready to go too. You've been a good master to me, sir; and I don't want to leave a good master because things go against him."