"Certainly. I am going to the library to write my letters. You can go with me, if you like."
They went together to the library. As Sir Oswald closed the door, and turned to face his nephew, he perceived that Reginald was deadly pale.
"What is amiss?" he asked.
"You ask me that, my dear uncle, at a time when you ought to know that my sympathy for your sorrow—"
"Reserve your sympathy until it is needed," answered the baronet, abruptly. "I dare say you mean well, my dear Reginald; but there are some subjects which I will suffer no man to approach."
"I beg your pardon, sir. Then, in that case, I can tell you nothing. I fancied that it was my duty to bring you any information that reached me; but I defer to you entirely. The subject is a most unhappy one, and I am glad to be spared the pain involved in speaking of it."
"What do you mean?" said the baronet. "If you have anything to tell me—anything that can throw light upon the mystery of my wife's flight—speak out, and speak quickly. I am almost mad, Reginald. Forgive me, if I spoke harshly just now. You are my nephew, and the mask I wear before the world may be dropped in your presence."
"I know nothing personally of Lady Eversleigh's disappearance," said Reginald; "but I have good reason to believe that Miss Graham could tell you much, if she chose to speak out. She has hinted at being in the secret, and I think it only right you should question her."
"I will question her," answered sir Oswald, starting to his feet. "Send her to me, Reginald."
Mr. Eversleigh left his uncle, and Miss Graham very speedily appeared—looking the very image of unconscious innocence—and quite unable to imagine what "dear Sir Oswald" could want with her.