Denzil turned swiftly to Miss Rawson. "Something about your mysterious Lady of the Barge," he said, with a smile. "Tell Gregory to step inside, please, Chant."
The constable entered, buttoned up tight in his uniform, which had apparently been constructed when he was less stout. He made his bow, and glanced diffidently at Miss Rawson.
"Well, Gregory, is your business with me very private?"
Gregory grew red. His message distressed him, for the Vanstons were respected in the village. "It's about Mr. Felix, sir."
Denzil's heart turned over. He might have guessed. This was not the first time the shadow of police-courts had overspread the home of his ancestors. The bitterness of what he had been through—the memory of his first hearing the news of his brother's arrest—his hurried journey to London to retain counsel for the defense—the fiery and insolent demeanor of the foolish young culprit—the horror of those days in the close, stifling air of the Law Courts—and the final humiliation of hearing Felix Vanston sentenced. All broke at once upon the memory of the young man with a stroke like that of a whip falling on bare flesh. He grasped the high mantel, felt a sickness creep over him, sank into a chair, and looked stonily at his aunt. "About Felix!" he said, hoarsely.
Aunt Bee laid aside her paper and turned to face poor Gregory, who stood miserably toying with some folded papers.
"Dear, dear, Gregory," she said, nervously, "have you bad news for us?"
"I'm afraid so, miss. Mr. Felix, since he came out on his ticket-of-leave"—Denzil winced—"he's been trying to make a little money by—by writing of books, sir, what I can make of it in the account here." He adjusted his spectacles with what seemed like maddening slowness to the two watching. "He's lodged, sir, in Poplar, in Bow, in the Borough, and now at last in Deptford—No. 6, Hawkins Row. He was there a matter of ten days, and on Monday last he paid his rent. The woman thinks he pawned an overcoat and one or two things to pay it. He also, sir—he also bought some laudanum."
"Denzil!" cried Miss Rawson, appealing. "I told you your last letter was too hard!"
"Too hard!" Denzil turned eyes of dignified reproach upon his aunt. "You say, too hard! After what he has called upon me to endure! I have many things with which to reproach myself, but being hard upon Felix is not one of them."