“Certainly we did not,” Stothert answered. “That room is a long way off, and there are several doors between it and the landing. How did you get out eventually?”
Lord Froissart held out his walking stick.
“With the help of this,” he said. “In desperation I finally set to work to grind the ferrule square by rubbing it on the hearthstone in that room—I fear I have disfigured the stone, but that, of course, I will make good. It was a long job, I can assure you—and it ruined my stick. Here, take your torch,” he added with a laugh, as he handed it to him.
Stothert and his companion looked considerably relieved.
“A most unfortunate mishap,” the former remarked, with a quick glance at the woman. “And you gave us quite a fright,” he added. “We thought burglars had broken in.”
“Well, I thought so too, for some minutes,” Froissart said lightly. “Do you always work as late as this, if it is not an impertinent question?” He looked about the room. “I see you have been hard at it.”
“No, we rarely work late, but to-night we had on hand rather an urgent matter. And may I ask, m’lord, what you wished to see me about when you came here this afternoon? Oh, excuse me, you surely must be hungry after your long imprisonment—I feel that indirectly I am to blame for the mishap. Camille,” he turned to the woman, “go and see if you can find something for Lord Froissart to eat. I am afraid m’lord there is not much in the house.”
“Please don’t trouble about food on my account,” Froissart urged. “I really am not hungry, and the blunder was my fault. And now, with regard to the matter I wanted to see you about. You remember, of course, the sad affair of my poor daughter’s death?”
“Quite well. The papers were full of it, which must have caused you pain.”
“It did—great pain. It seems to me that the newspapers have no consideration for people’s feelings—they have no delicacy, no mercy.”