“I assure you, my dear sir, you entirely misunderstand me,” he protested. “I merely say—”
“Oh, enough!” I cried angrily, turning upon my heel and leaving the room abruptly. I was sick of the chattering old idiot, who evidently believed that I was not responsible for my actions.
Down the wide oak stairs I passed, and in the great hall, which seemed to run the whole length of the house, and was filled with stands of armour, tattered banners, and trophies of the chase, I encountered the pale-faced man who had sent for old Britten.
I was passing him by, intent upon exploring this strange house in which I found myself, when, approaching me, he said—
“Would you please come into the library for one moment?”
“The library?” I asked, looking at him, puzzled. “Where is it?”
He opened a door close by, and I followed him into a comfortable study, lined with books from floor to ceiling. In the centre was a large writing-table littered with papers, while close beside was another smaller table, very severe and business-like.
“Well?” I inquired. “What do you want?”
“This telegram has just arrived,” he answered excitedly, unlocking a drawer in the smaller writing-table, and taking out a telegram, which he handed to me.
Puzzled, I took the flimsy paper and read the words written thereon, as follows:—