“What a singular thing—that you should chance to have been in Dip Lane just at the time they were!—and why should they have chosen that dreary route! But—but——”
“But what, ma’am?” cried the Squire.
“Well, I am thinking what could have been St. George’s motive for concealing the news from me when he came round here last night to tell me he had left Ellin safely at Philip West’s,” replied she.
“Did he say nothing to you about William Brook?”
“Not a word. He said what a nasty drive home it had been in the teeth of the storm and wind, but he did not mention William Brook. He seemed tired, and did not stay above a minute or two. John was out. Oh, here is John.”
Mr. Delorane, hearing our voices, I suppose, came in from the office. Aunt Hester told him the news at once—that William Brook was come home.
“I am downright glad,” interrupted the lawyer emphatically. “What with one delay and another, one might have begun to think him lost: it was September, you know, that he originally announced himself for. What do you say?”—his own words having partly drowned Aunt Hester’s—“St. George drove him home last night from Worcester? Drove Brook? Nonsense! Had St. George brought Brook he would have told me of it.”
“But he did bring him, sir,” affirmed Tod: and he went over the history once more. Mr. Delorane did not take it in.
“Are these lads playing a joke upon me, Squire?” asked he.
“Look here, Delorane. That we passed St. George in Dip Lane is a fact; I knew the cut of his gig and horse. Some one was with him; I saw that much. The boys called out that it was William Brook, and began shouting to him. Whether it was he, or not, I can’t say; I had enough to do with my horses, I can tell you; they did not like the wind, Blister especially.”