“Yes, sir,” answered the old servant. “But—excuse me, sir, you don’t look very well. Can’t I get you something? A little brandy—perhaps?”
“Well, yes, Hughes. Just a liqueur-glass full,” was his master’s reply; and then he turned again to his accounts.
Hughes, a moment later, placed the thin little Venetian liqueur-glass upon a silver salver at his elbow, and retired noiselessly.
Mr Sandys had not heard him. He was far too engrossed in his work of examination of the accounts and three bankers’ pass-books.
Now and then he drew long breaths and snapped his fingers in fierce impatience.
“To think of this! Only to think of it!” escaped his pale, thin lips.
Then he rose, and with his hand on the edge of the table he slowly surveyed his room.
“And I trusted Hornton! He was so sound that I would have entrusted to him Elma’s life and future. And she is all I have in the world. And he’s let me down!”
He reseated himself at the table, and, taking up a telegram, re-read it, as he had done a dozen times before.
It was dated from Stowmarket, and said: