He handed her a scrap of paper, folded but not sealed. It was scrawled over in pencil, with a tremulous hand.
"Come to me at once, if you want to see me alive.—Roderick."
That was all.
"Is he tall, with dark eyes and hair?" she asked.
"Yes. You'd better come at once if you know anything about him. He's mortal bad. And mother said you'd best bring some brandy."
Barbara Layburne went hastily to the store-room, where everything was kept sternly under lock and key. Half the business of her life was to unlock and lock those presses and store-closets, doling out everything to the submissive cook, who still contrived somehow to have her pinch out of this and that. Barbara filled a small bottle with brandy, fetched her cloak and hood, and then went back to the hall, where the boy was waiting.
She went along the avenue, muffled in her gray cloth cloak, a ghostlike figure, the boy following her as fast as his legs would carry him. He declared afterwards that he had never seen any one walk so fast as Mrs. Layburne walked that stormy night, though the wind and rain were beating against her face and figure all the way.
There was a light burning dimly in the lodge as they drew near. The door was open, and the old gardener was standing on the threshold watching for them.
"Is he—dead?" gasped Barbara.
"No; but his breath is short and thick, just as if he was near his end, poor wretch. He ain't anybody belonging to you, is he, madam?"