He put the candlesticks—they were of silver—on the table, shut the door behind him, and standing before Mr. Jordan with bowed head, his earnest eyes fixed on the old man’s face, he said again, ‘Yes, that is what I have come to ask. Where is Eve’s mother?’
No one spoke. Barbara recovered herself first; she rose from the stool, and stepped between her father and the steward.
‘It is not you,’ she said, ‘who have a right to ask questions. It is we who have to call you to account.’
‘For what, Miss Jordan?’ He spoke to her with deference—a certain tone of reverence which never left him when addressing her.
‘You must give an account of yourself,’ she said.
‘I am just returned from Buckfastleigh,’ he answered.
‘And, pray, how is your father who was dying?’ she asked, with a curl of her lip and a quiver of contempt in her voice.
‘He is well,’ replied Jasper. ‘I was deceived about his sickness. He has not been ill. I was sent on a fool’s errand.’
‘Then,’ said Mr. Jordan, who had recovered himself, ‘what about the money?’
‘The recovery of that is as distant as ever, but also as certain.’