If Plank suspected him, he must also suspect him of complicity in the Inter-County grab; he must suspect him of the ruthless crushing power that corrupts or annihilates opposition, making a mockery of legislation, a jest of the courts, and an epigram of a people's indignation.
And yet, in the face of all this, careless, fearless, frank to the outer verge of stupidity—which sometimes means the inability to be afraid—this man Plank was casually telling him things which men regard as secrets and as weapons of defence—was actually averting him of his peril, and telling him almost contemptuously to pull up the drawbridge and prepare for siege, instead of rushing the castle and giving it to the sack.
As Quarrier sat there meditating, his long, white fingers caressing his soft, pointed beard, Sylvia came in, greeting the men collectively with a nod, and offering her hand to Plank.
“Dinner is announced,” she said; “please go in farm fashion. Wait!” as Plank, following the major and Quarrier, stood aside for her to pass. “No, you go ahead, Howard; and you,” to the major.
Left for a moment in the room with Plank, she stood listening to the others descending the stairs; then:
“Have you seen Mr. Siward?”
“Yes,” said Plank.
“Oh! Is he well?”
“Not very.”
“Is he well enough to read a letter, and to answer one?”