"Robert Dalrymple died in debt, I take it. Did he owe much in this neighbourhood?"
"Nothing here."
"Did he owe you anything?"
"Me!" cried the farmer. "Not he. Why, only a day before his death I had sent five hundred pounds to him to invest for me. He had not time to do it himself, but a gentleman who took a great deal of interest in Mr. Robert, and saw to his affairs afterwards, did it."
"What gentleman was that?"
"It was Mr. Grubb: he is Sir Francis Netherleigh now, and has come into Court Netherleigh. His sister—who is at the Grange tonight with old Mrs. Dalrymple—and Mr. Robert were to have been married. She has stayed single for his sake."
"Robert Dalrymple may not be dead," spoke the stranger.
But this hypothesis was received with disfavour; not to say scorn. The stranger maintained his opinion, saying that it was his opinion.
"Then perhaps you'll enjoy your opinion in private," rebuked Mr. Lee. "To talk in that senseless manner only makes us feel the fact of his death more sharply."
"What if I tell you I met him abroad, only a year ago?" There was a dead pause. Reuben breathed heavily. "Oh, don't play with us!" he cried out; "if my dear young master's alive, let me know it. But he cannot be alive," he added mournfully: "he would have made it known to us before now."