He
had known Andrew Pelham always as a good-natured, good-hearted giant,
beloved of children and animals, deeply religious, a man whose temper,
if he possessed such a thing, was always strictly under control. Such an
outburst as this was a revelation. Duncombe understood then how slight a
thing his own suffering was.
"You shall not go alone, Andrew," he said softly. "But for the present
we must wait. If any one can help us, Spencer will."
A servant came in with the whisky and glasses, and silently arranged
them upon the table. Duncombe rose and attended to his duties as host.
"Can I get you anything further, sir?" the man asked.
"Nothing, thanks," Duncombe answered. "Tell the servants to go to bed.
We will lock up. Say when, Andrew!"
Andrew took his glass mechanically. Out in the lane the silence of the
summer night was suddenly broken by the regular tread of horses' feet
and the rumbling of vehicles. Duncombe Hall was built like many of the
old-fashioned houses in the country, with its back to the road, and the
window at which they were sitting looked out upon it. Duncombe leaned
forward in his chair.
"Visitors by the last train going up to Runton Place," he remarked.
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