"It cannot be done; it cannot be done unless Mr. Chattaway can be propitiated. That is the only chance."
"Mr. Chattaway never will be," thought Mr. King. "Everything is against him where he is," he said aloud: "the air of the room, the constant fear upon him, the want of proper food. The provisions conveyed to him at chance times are a poor substitute for the meals he requires."
"And they will be stopped now," said Mrs. Chattaway. "Rebecca has prepared them privately, but she cannot do so now. Mr. King, what can be done!"
"I don't know, indeed. It will not be safe to attempt to move him. In fact, I question if he would consent to it, his dread of being discovered is so great."
"Will you do all you can?" she urged.
"To be sure," he replied. "I am doing all I can. I got him another bottle of port in to-day. If you only saw me trying to dodge into the lodge unperceived, and taking observations before I whisk out again, you would say that I am as anxious as you can be, my dear lady. Still—I don't hesitate to avow it—I believe it will be life or death, according as we can manage to get him away from that hole and set his mind at rest."
He wished her good night, and went out.
"Life or death!" Mrs. Chattaway stood at the window, and gazed into the dusky night, recalling over and over again the ominous words. "Life or death!" There was no earthly chance, except the remote one of appeasing Mr. Chattaway.