This is what the butler had whispered in Mrs. Treverton’s ear, handing her at the same time a card on which there was a name written—
‘Colonel Mansfield.’
At sight of this name Laura rose, whispered her excuse to Mrs. Clare, and glided quietly from the room.
‘Where have you left this gentleman?’ she asked the butler.
‘I left him in the hall, ma’am. I did not feel sure you would see him.’
‘He is related to my family,’ said Laura, faltering a little; ‘I cannot refuse to see him.’
This brief conversation occurred in the corridor leading from the servants’ hall to the front of the house. A tall man, wrapped in a loose, rough great-coat, was standing just inside the hall door, while Trimmer’s subordinate, a rustic youth in a dark-brown livery, stood at ease near the fireplace, evidently placed there to protect the mansion from any evil designs on the part of the unknown intruder.
Laura went to the stranger and gave him her hand, without a word. She was very pale, and it was evident the visitor was as unwelcome as he was unexpected.
‘You had better come to my study,’ she said. ‘There is a good fire there. Trimmer, take candles to the study and some wine.’
‘I’d rather have brandy,’ said the stranger. ‘I am chilled to the bone. An eight hours’ journey in a cattle truck is enough to freeze the youngest blood. For a man of my age, and with chronic neuralgia, it means martyrdom.’