Lest her courage should fail she went at once, shivering as she passed through the shadowy library, where a small lamp, burning on a table, did no more than light her to the staircase. She ran up the stairs and was groping for the handle of Mr. Audley’s door when the door opened abruptly and Toft stepped out, a candle in his hand. She was so close to him that he all but touched her, and he was, if anything, more startled than she was. He stood gaping at her.
Through the narrow opening she had a glimpse of her uncle, who was on his feet before the fire. He was fully dressed.
That surprised her, for, even before this last attack, he had spent most of his time in his dressing-gown. Still more surprising was Toft’s conduct. He shut the door and held it. “The master is going to bed, Miss,” he said.
“I see that he is dressed!” she replied. And she looked at Toft in such a way that the man gave way, took his hand from the door, and stood aside. She pushed the door open and went in. Her uncle, standing with his back to her, was huddling on his dressing-gown.
“What is it?” he cried, his face averted. “Who is it?”
“It is only I, sir,” she replied. “Mary.” She closed the door.
“But I thought I told you that I didn’t want you!” he retorted pettishly. “I am going to bed.” He turned, having succeeded in girding on his dressing-gown. “Going to bed,” he repeated. “Didn’t I tell you so?”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” she said, “but I had news for you. News that has surprised me. I thought that you would like to hear it.”
He looked at her, his furtive eyes giving the lie to his plump face, which sagged more than of old. “News,” he muttered, peevishly. “What news? I wish you wouldn’t startle me. You ought to remember that—that excitement is bad for me. And you come at this time of night with news! What is it?” He was not looking at her. He seemed to be seeking something. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing very terrible,” she answered, smiling. “Nothing to alarm you, uncle. Won’t you sit down?”