He held the letter in his hand for some minutes before he opened it. The handwriting warned him that it was from Mr. Carr, and he knew that no pleasant news could be in it. In fact, he had placed himself in so unsatisfactory a position as to render anything but bad news next door to an impossibility.
It contained only a few lines—a word of caution Mr. Carr had forgotten to speak when he took leave of Lord Hartledon the previous morning. "Let me advise you not to say anything to those people—Gum, I think the name is—about G.G. It might not be altogether prudent for you to do so. Should you remain any time at Hartledon, I will come down for a few days and question for myself."
"I've done it already," thought Val, as he folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. "As to my staying any time at Hartledon—not if I know it."
Looking up at the sound of footsteps, he saw Hedges approaching. Never free from a certain apprehension when any unexpected interruption occurred—an apprehension that turned his heart sick, and set his pulses beating—he waited, outwardly very calm.
"Floyd has called, my lord, and is asking to see you. He seems rather—rather concerned and put out. I think it's something about—about the death last summer."
Hedges hardly knew how to frame his words, and Lord Hartledon stared at him.
"Floyd can come to me here," he said.
The miller soon made his appearance, carrying a small case half purse, half pocket-book, in his hand, made of Russian leather, with rims of gold. Val knew it in a moment, in spite of its marks of defacement.
"Do you recognize it, my lord?" asked the miller.
"Yes, I do," replied Lord Hartledon. "It belonged to my brother."