Trevor followed him to his so-called “study,” the little room where, only a few hours before, Cicely, overwhelmed with the shock of her discovery in the fernery, little thinking of what the night had still in store, had sat waiting for her cousin Geneviève.
It was a rather shabby, comfortable room, by no means in keeping with the rest of the house, but a cosy little den nevertheless. Sir Thomas was standing on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, when Trevor came in.
“This is a sad shock, my boy,” he said, “a very sad shock. I am extremely sorry for those poor things—Methvyn’s wife and daughter,—extremely sorry for them.”
“Yes,” said Trevor, wondering if that were all that his father had to say.
“Of course,” continued Sir Thomas, “of course, we all knew his life was a very poor one—must have been so ever since his accident; still it seems very sad it should have been cut short in this way.”
“It was frightfully sudden I understand,” said Trevor.
“Terribly so, poor fellow! they say he never spoke again.” Sir Thomas turned his head away for a moment, then stooped down and gave the fire a supererogatory poke. “If all is true that is said, however, perhaps it is as well he never recovered consciousness; that is what I wanted to speak to you about, my boy. Of course, we can’t tell how much or how little of these reports may be true, but, at the worst, I want you quite to understand it need not make you uneasy. I hope and believe it is exaggerated, but, in any case, it need make no difference.”
Trevor had been listening with a puzzled expression to his father; now he looked up with some anxiety. “I don’t understand what you are referring to, my dear father,” he said. “I don’t see why Colonel Methvyn’s death should make me uneasy. I have heard no reports except about its being very sudden, which, of course, we all know must have been the case.”
“You have not heard what is supposed to have killed him?”
“No,” replied Trevor.