“No, don’t do that. Don’t see him now when he’s mad with drink and rage. Wait till to-morrow.”
“How are we going to spend the night, Grace? I feel I shall never sleep again.”
Next day, when Mr. Castillyon came downstairs, his wife saw that he had slept as badly as herself; for though dressed now very carefully in the rough tweeds of the country gentleman, his face was drawn and white, his eyes heavy with watching. He advanced to kiss her as usual, but on a sudden stopped, and a flush rapidly darkened his cheek; he drew back, and without a word sat down to breakfast. Neither could eat, and after a decent interval, meant to impress the servants that nothing very unusual had happened, Paul rose heavily to his feet.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “You’d better not go to Bridger’s; he’s been drinking hard all night, and he might hurt you. You know he’s violent-tempered.”
“D’you think I should care if he killed me?” he answered hoarsely, his face distorted by a look of dreadful pain,
“Oh, Paul, what have I done!” she cried, breaking down.
“Don t talk of that now.”
He moved towards the door, and she sprang up.
“If you are going to see Bridger, I must come, too, I’m so afraid.”
“Would you mind if anything happened to me?” he asked bitterly.