“As long as this country continues to harbour, etc.,” said one Daily. He tossed them aside, one by one. Sir James, of course, had a good selection of papers sent to his house, and they arrived whether he was there or not.
He sat long in deep thought, smoking continuously. Presently he put his hand into his pocket, and drew out his pocket book. He looked round with his habitual caution, and then took out a visiting card. On one side was the name of Mr. Eric Sanders, and the address of a well-known London Club, and on the other was written in pencil—
“For God’s sake, see me. I will not detain you.”
“Sinclair, my friend, you would have liked to get this—pushed under the door. Mrs. Simmons, you were not telling the whole truth. I think this requires further investigation.”
He rose from his seat and strolled through the old garden with its gorgeous, herbaceous beds of late summer, where delphiniums and hollyhocks and the bright blue of borage made a dream of colour.
It was all very fair, and quiet after the dust and sweat of London. He returned to the house filled with a vague disquiet. Entering the hall, he was met by a maid.
“Miss Mabel would like to see you in her own room,” she said, and on his nodding assent she conducted him to a sweet sitting room, fragrant with flowers and furnished with the taste of a girl who had the means to gratify her every wish.
She was seated on a sofa, white faced, and dressed all in black.
She had conquered her emotion. Her old nurse stood by her like a sentry on duty.
“Mr. Collins,” she said: “I am puzzled to know why you undertook this long journey to break this sad news to me. Were you a friend of my father’s? I am very grateful,” she continued hastily, as though fearing she was too frigid in her manner.