The brougham stopped at his lordship’s door in Victoria Street, and then drove northwards with the physician. There was time for much serious reflection between Westminster and Welbeck Street.
“My new patient must be carefully looked after,” mused the doctor, “for I’m afraid there’s more meaning in her self-accusation than there generally is in such cases, and that Sir Godfrey Carmichael’s murderer is now in my keeping.”
The long August day passed very quietly at Milbrook Priory. Lady Cheriton arrived in the afternoon, and the three generations spent the summer hours on the lawn, mother and daughter sitting at work under the tulip trees, grandson and nurse in that state of perpetual motion which is infancy’s only alternative with perpetual slumber.
Theodore spent his afternoon in a somewhat restless fashion, and appeared as if possessed by a rage for locomotion. He rambled about the grounds, explored the shrubberies, and every yard of the plantation that girdled the little park. He went to both lodges, and talked to the caretaker at each. He made two different excursions to the village, on pretence of making inquiries at the Post Office, but in reality with the idea of meeting with, or hearing of, Mrs. Porter, should she have wandered that way. He behaved like a member of the secret police who had been charged with the guardianship of the most precious life in the land; and if his movements betrayed the nervous anxiety of the amateur, rather than the business-like tranquillity of the professional, he made up in earnestness for what he lacked in training and experience.
It was on his return from his second sauntering perambulation of the village that he found Lord Cheriton’s telegram waiting for him at the Priory. The relief that message brought was unspeakable, and his countenance showed the change in his feelings when he rejoined the two ladies on the lawn.
“Something very pleasant must have happened to you, Theodore,” said Juanita. “You have been looking the picture of gloom all day, and now you are suddenly radiant. Have you been talking to one of the Vicar’s pretty daughters?”
“No, Juanita; neither of those wax-doll beauties glorified my path. I heard their treble voices on the other side of the holly-hedge as I passed the Vicarage, and I’m afraid they were quarrelling. I have had good news from London.”
“From my father?”
“Yes.”