“Whereabouts?” asked Tod.
“Come and see, sir.”
He turned back towards the greenhouse, but not another word would he say, only pointed to it. Leaving the fishing-rods on the path, we set off to run.
Never had I seen such a scene before; as I told you at the beginning. The windows were shut, every crevice where a breath of air might enter seemed to be hermetically closed; a smell as of some sulphurous acid pervaded the air; and the whole show of plants had turned to ruin.
A wreck complete. Colour was gone; leaves and stems were gone; the sweet perfume was gone; nothing remained, so to say, but the pots. It was as if some burning blast had passed through the greenhouse, withering to death every plant that stood in it, and the ripening grapes above.
“What on earth can have done this?” cried Tod to Jenkins, when he was able to speak.
“Well, Mr. Joseph, I say nothing could have done it but the——”
“Don’t talk rubbish about the devil, Jenkins. He does not work in quite so practical a way. Open the windows.”
“I was on by half-past five, sir, not coming here at first, but——”
“Where’s Monk this morning?” again interrupted Tod, who had turned imperative.