“There’s nothing else against him. At least, in—in——” He did not go on. He could not bring his lips to say of his brother—“from a criminal point of view.”
“Nothing else of which unpleasant legal cognizance can be taken,” freely interposed Mr. Snow. “Well, now, it is my opinion that there’s not a shadow of fear to be entertained from Lord Averil. He is your old and firm friend, Mr. Godolphin.”
“He has been mine: yes. Not so much George’s. Most men in such a case of—of loss, would resent it, without reference to former friendship. I am not at any certainty, you see, and therefore I cannot take the responsibility of saying to my brother, ‘It is safe for you to return.’ Lord Averil has never been near me since. I argue ill from it.”
“He has not been with you for the best of all possible reasons—that he has been away from Prior’s Ash,” explained Mr. Snow.
“Has he been away? I did not know it.”
“He has. He was called away unexpectedly by some relative’s illness, a day or two after your house was declared bankrupt. He may have refrained from calling on you just at the time that happened, from motives of delicacy.”
“True,” replied Thomas Godolphin. But his tone was not a hopeful one. “When does he return?”
“He has returned. He came back last night.”
There was a pause. Thomas Godolphin broke it. “I wish you could give me something to avert or mitigate these sharp attacks of pain, Snow,” he said. “It is agony, in fact; not pain.”
“I know it,” replied Mr. Snow. “Where’s the use of my attempting to give you anything? You don’t take my prescriptions.”