“How has it sped?” he asked, his lips twitching on the words.
“Yonder they sit,” said Trenchard, pointing down the lawn.
“No, no. I mean... Sir Rowland.”
“Oh, Sir Rowland?” cried the old sinner, as though Sir Rowland were some matter long forgotten. He sighed. “Alas, poor Swiney! I fear I've cheated him.”
“You mean?”
“Art slow at inference, Dick. Sir Rowland has passed away in the odour of villainy.”
Richard clasped nervous hands together and raised his colourless eyes to heaven.
“May the Lord have mercy on his soul!” said he.
“May He, indeed!” said Trenchard, when he had recovered from his surprise. “But,” he added pessimistically, “I doubt the rogue's in hell.”
Richard's eyes kindled suddenly, and he quoted from the thirtieth Psalm, “'I will extol thee, O Lord; for Thou hast lifted me up, and hast not made my foes to rejoice over me.'”