“I think very decidedly that no one need ever hear or think any more of that part of it,” was his reassuring reply. “I can put it all together pretty well, if it is any satisfaction to you for me to say so. And your father is content to ask you no more than the fact of certain knowledge having come to you that was not intended for you, and, after all, ‘all’s well that ends well,’” and here he smiled.
“Then it has or is going to end well?” I said eagerly.
At my words he grew grave again.
“Yes,” he replied, “though,” he hesitated a moment, “I don’t want to seem heartless, and death is always awe-inspiring, especially in such circumstances as we have just seen it—your father and I, I mean.”
“Then he is dead?” I said breathlessly. “That unhappy man, Ernest Fitzmaurice?”
Clarence bent his head.
“An hour or two after I saw him,” he replied, “he died. But—truly repentant.”
I felt shocked, and for a moment or two we did not speak.
Then “I am so glad you were in time to be with father,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I think I was of use to him, though he had done excellently. Got the deposition fully drawn out, signed and witnessed, so that there was scarcely anything for me to do at Liverpool, and therefore, armed with my full credentials, I hurried off to Millflowers, where my father met me. But as to this part of it, Mr Fitzmaurice and I must tell it to you together, more at leisure,” for just then the servant came into the room with the breakfast trays.