“Just the first thought that struck me when I opened the letter,” said Stephen, drawing one from his pocket. “Here it is, though, in black and white.”
His hands shook like anything as he held out the letter. It was from one of the assistants at Dale’s—a Mr. Pitt: the head doctor, under Dale, Stephen explained. Frank had died suddenly, it stated, without warning of any kind, so that there was no possibility of apprising his friends; and it requested Mr. Radcliffe to go up without delay.
“It is a dreadful thing!” cried the Squire.
“So it is, poor fellow,” agreed Stephen. “I never thought it was going to end this way; not yet awhile, at any rate. For him, it’s a happy release, I suppose. He’d never ha’ been good for anything.”
“What has he died of?” questioned Tod.
The voice, or the question, seemed to startle Stephen. He looked sharply round, as if he hadn’t known Tod was there, an ugly scowl on his face.
“I expect we shall hear it was heart disease,” he said, facing the Squire and turning his back upon Tod.
“Why do you say that, Mr. Radcliffe? Was anything the matter with his heart?”
“Dale had some doubts of it, Squire. He thought that was the cause of his wasting away.”