“Do you think I ought to tell you if you are going to die?”
There was a momentary spasm of terror on the face, a look such as a child has when shrinking from the rod, and then the eyes went to the window and back to Rossie, who said:
“We hope for the best, but the case is very bad, and if you do not see Mr. Everard again shall I tell him you forgive him, and were sorry?”
Quick as lightning the affirmative answer agreed upon between them was given, and in great delight Rossie exclaimed, “I am so glad, for that is what you have tried so hard to tell me. You wish me to say this to Mr. Everard, and I will. Is that all?”
This time the eyes did not move, but looked into hers with such an earnest, beseeching expression, that she knew there was more to come. Question after question followed, but the eyes never left her face, and she could see the pupils dilate and the color deepen in them, as they seemed burning themselves into hers.
“What is it? What can it be?” she asked, despairingly. “Does it concern Mr. Everard in any way?”
“Yes,” was the eye answer quickly given, and then Rosamond guessed everything she could think of, the possible and impossible, but the bright eyes kept their steady gaze upon her until, thinking of Joe Fleming, she asked, “Is somebody else concerned in it?”
“Yes,” was the response, and not willing to introduce Joe too soon, Rossie said: “Is it the servants?”
“No.”
“Is it Beatrice?”