“I’m afraid that’s not a very good plan, Edward. That would be worse than useless.”
“Pshaw! I tell you I’ll soon find out whether it’s useless!”
Mr. Fenton sat down to a writing-table and began scribbling excitedly. When he had sealed up his note he rang the bell.
“Is there any one in the stable?” he inquired, rather unnecessarily, seeing that it was just half-past eight in the morning. The Fentons were early people and breakfasted at eight, even in winter. Lady Harriet never sat long at the table after meals were over, and they had just left the dining-room.
Before the man could answer, a steady, approaching trot was plain in the avenue, and, a moment later, there was a grinding of wheels upon the gravel.
“What an extraordinary hour for any one to come,” exclaimed Lady Harriet.
As she spoke, the long face of the Vicar of Crishowell’s old mare was visible through the window. She was blowing, and though only her head could be seen, it was apparent, from the way it rocked backwards and forwards, that she was cruelly distressed.
The butler went out and returned.
“Mr. Lewis, sir. He says he must see you particular. He wished to be shown into the study, sir.”