She did not go to her room to see how she looked, as most women would have done; she did not even glance at one of the mirrors in the rooms through which she passed. She went as she was, looking very white, very worn, very stern in her close black gown, to the other end of the house where the library was.
Hurstmanceaux was standing in the middle of the room; the light from one of the windows shone on his fair hair. She saw that he too was very pale and appeared distressed and embarrassed.
“You wished to see me, Lord Hurstmanceaux,” she said coldly. “Would not the solicitors have done equally well?”
“No,” said Hurstmanceaux—his voice was harsh and unsteady. “I venture to beg of you not to make my errand known to your solicitors.”
She was silent; she sat down and motioned to him to do the same, but he remained standing.
“You sent me a letter from your late father—Mr. Massarene?” he said—his voice seemed strangled in his throat.
“I enclosed one some time ago, yes.”
“I have only now received it. I have been away yachting. Nothing was forwarded.” His words came with difficulty; he spoke like a man to whom what he is obliged to say is torture.
“It does not concern me,” she said coldly. “I have no wish to know what it contained.”
“You must know,” said Ronald. “It contained a signature of my sister of Otterbourne, who, it appears from another paper enclosed with it, owed to your father the enormous sum of twelve thousand pounds.”