“Who can be dead?” cried Tod, stretching his neck out at the window to listen. “Was any one ill, Jenkins?” he called to the head-gardener, then coming up the path with a barrow; “do you know who that bell’s tolling for?”
“It’s for Mr. Caromel,” answered Jenkins.
“What?” shouted Tod.
“It’s tolling for Mr. Caromel, sir. He died in the night.”
It was a shock to us all. The Squire, pocketing his indignation against madam and the Nave family in general, went over to the farm after breakfast, and saw Miss Gwendolen Nave, who was staying with her sister. They called her Gwinny.
“We heard that he was better—going on so well,” gasped the Squire.
“So he was until a day or two ago,” said Miss Gwinny, holding her handkerchief to her eyes. “Very well indeed until then—when it turned to typhus.”
“Goodness bless me!” cried the Squire, an unpleasant feeling running through him. “Typhus!”
“Yes, I am sorry to say.”
“Is it safe to be here? Safe for you all?”