“And where was it that he did die?”
“At my lodgings.”
“What lodgings?”
“The lodgings I stayed at while I was shipping off the things to Tom. I took Frank there, intending to bring him down home with me when I came, and surprise you all. Before I could come he was drinking, and as mad again as a March hare. Pitt had to strap him down to his bed.”
“Are you sure you did not ship him off to Tom also, while you were shipping the things?” demanded the Squire. “I believe you are crafty enough for it, Stephen Radcliffe—and unbrotherly enough.”
“If I’d shipped him off, he could have shipped himself back again, I take it,” returned Stephen, coolly.
“Where are these lodgings that he died at?”
“In London.”
“Whereabouts in London? I didn’t suppose they were in New York.”