"Quite an infant."
"Nevertheless, he was Squire of Trevlyn Hold, failing me. Why did he not succeed?"
There came no answer. He looked at them all in succession; but even Miss Diana Trevlyn's undisturbable equanimity was shaken for the moment. It was Mr. Chattaway who plucked up courage to reply, and he put on as bold a front as he could.
"Squire Trevlyn judged it well to will the estate to me. What would a child in petticoats do, reigning at Trevlyn Hold?"
"He might have reigned by deputy. Where is Rupert? I must see him!"
But had they been keen observers they might have detected that Squire Trevlyn put the questions not altogether with the tone of a man who seeks information. In point of fact he was as wise as they were as to the principal events which had followed on the Squire's death. He had remained in London two or three weeks since landing; had gathered all the information that could be afforded him by Connell and Connell, and had himself dictated the letters which had so upset Mr. Chattaway; more than that, he had, this very morning, halted at Barmester, on his way to Trevlyn Hold, had seen Mr. Peterby, and gleaned many details. One thing Mr. Peterby had not been able to tell him, whether the unfortunate Rupert was living or dead.
"Where is Maude?" he suddenly asked.
Maude stepped forward, somewhat surprised.
"Not you, child. One who must be thirty good years older than you. My sister, Maude Trevlyn."
"She married Thomas Ryle, of the Farm," answered Miss Diana, who had rapidly determined to be the best of friends with her brother. "It was not a fitting match for her, and she entered upon it without our consent; nay, in defiance of us all. She lives there still; and—and—here she is!"