“You’d better tell me all about it,” she said with a coldness he either did not notice or chose to ignore.
“So I will,” he replied, “but first, is there anywhere that we can lock up that box—any place Keturah doesn’t get her fingers in?”
She shook her head; then bethought herself. “What about that old portmanteau of yours. It’s on the top o’ the closet. Doesn’t it lock?”
“The very thing!” he exclaimed; and he climbed up and brought it down. Then, having fitted a key to it from a bunch he took from his pocket, he put the box inside and returned it to its place.
“That’s better!” he said in a tone of relief. “It’s safe there till we get it away, bit by bit.”
Still Nancy said nothing, but the look of inquiry in her eyes was not unmixed with suspicion, and Inman laughed.
“Your face is a picture, Nancy. Afraid I’ve turned highwayman, I suppose? You needn’t worry; there’s nobody after me, not even Uncle John. Get into bed, child; you’re shivering!”
She was too proud to examine the wound on her foot; too much afraid that he should think she was inviting his sympathy. She therefore drew on her stockings with the muttered explanation that her feet were like ice, and returned to bed.
Five minutes later Inman unfolded his story.
“The old boy’s pretty well on his last legs, or I’m no judge. What ails him? Oh, his health’s all right; don’t you trouble your head about that—in fact, don’t trouble it about anything whilst you have me to look after you. It’s Uncle John’s business, not his body, that’s tottering. He’s had a jolly good run for his money; but the weasels are after him now, and they’ll have their teeth in his neck before three months are up, mark my words!”