"I seemed to foresee it," moaned Karl. "From the very first, the persuasion has lain upon me that this would be the ending."
Ere many minutes elapsed, ere he had attempted to touch a morsel of breakfast, a gentleman was shown in. It was Mr. Plunkett: a stout man in spectacles, with a large red nose. He had the Times in his hand. Captain Andinnian's paper lay open on the breakfast table; Captain Andinnian's face, as he rose to receive his visitor, betrayed its own story.
"I see; you have read the tidings," began Mr. Plunkett, sitting down. "It is a dreadful thing."
"Do--do you think there's any chance that it may not be true?" he rejoined in an imploring tone.
"There's not the slightest as to the main fact--that Sir Adam is dead," replied the lawyer decisively. "What could he have been thinking of, to hazard it?"
Karl sat shading his face.
"I'll tell you what it is, sir--there was a spice of madness in your brother's composition, I said so when he shot Scott. There must have been. And who, but a madman, would try to get away from Portland Island?"
"Nay. A rash act, Mr. Plunkett; but not one that implies madness."
There ensued a silence. These interviews are usually attended by embarrassment.
"I have intruded on you this morning to express my best sympathy, and to ask whether I can be of any service to you, Captain Andinnian," resumed the lawyer. "I beg your pardon: Sir Karl, I ought to say."