“I am so sorry to hear Sir Dace is no better,” I said to Coralie Fontaine, who had waited at the gate to speak to me.
Coralie shook her head. Some deep feeling sat in her generally passive face: the tears stood in her eyes.
“Thank you, Johnny Ludlow. It is very sad. I feel sure Mr. Rymer has given up all hope, though he does not say so to me. Verena looks nearly as ill as papa. I wish we had never come to Europe!”
“Sir Dace exerts himself too greatly, Mr. Rymer says.”
“Yes; and worries himself also. As if his affairs needed as much as a thought!—I am sure they must be just as straight and smooth as yonder green plain. He had to see Mr. Paul yesterday about some alteration in his will, and went to Islip, instead of sending for Paul here. I thought he would have died when he got home. Papa has a strange restlessness upon him. Good-bye, Johnny. I’d ask you to come in but that things are all so miserable.”
It was late in the evening, getting towards bedtime. Mrs. Todhetley had gone upstairs with the face-ache, Tod was over at old Coney’s, and I and the Squire were sitting alone, when Thomas surprised us by showing in Tom Chandler. We did not know he was back from London.
“Yes, I got back this evening,” said he, as he sat down near the lamp, and spread some papers out on the table. “I am in a bit of a dilemma, Mr. Todhetley; and I am come here at this late hour to put it before you.”
Chandler’s voice had dropped to a mysterious whisper; his eyes were glancing at the door to make sure it was shut. The Squire pushed up his spectacles and drew his chair nearer. I sat on the opposite side, wondering what was coming.
“That suspicion of Alice Tanerton’s—that Sir Dace killed Pym,” went on Chandler, his left hand resting on the papers, his eyes on the Squire’s. “I think it was a true one.”
“A what?” cried the pater.