It was not possible for either of the listeners to conceal the irritation with which they received this sudden shot. They looked at each other this time with a sudden angry consultation. Dr. Stirling touched his empty glass significantly with the forefinger of one hand, and held up the other as a warning. “It seems to me,” he said, “that it would be an excellent thing about this time of the night to join the ladies. It will very soon be time for my wife and me to go.”
“He is afraid of his wife, you see, Erskine,” said Torrance, with his laugh. “We’re all that. Keep out of the noose as long as you can, my lad. You may be very thankful for what you’ve missed, as well as what you’ve got.”
“I suppose you mean something by what you are saying, Mr. Torrance,” said John, “but I do not understand what it is.”
Upon this Torrance laughed louder than before. “He’s confounded sly—confounded sly. He’ll not let on he knows—that’s because you’re here, Doctor. Join the ladies, as you say—that is far the best thing you can do—and Erskine and I will have a glass more.”
“A great deal better not, Tinto,” said the Doctor; “you know it’s not the fashion now: and Lady Caroline will wonder what’s become of us. It’s a little dark down the avenue, and my wife is nervous. You must come and shake hands with her before she goes.”
Both the guests rose, but the master of the house kept his seat. “Come, Erskine, stay a bit, and tell me about—about—what was the name of the place? Let the Doctor go. He has his sermon to write, no doubt, and his wife to please. Go away, Doctor, we’ll join you presently,” Torrance said, giving him a jocular push towards the door. “Come, Erskine, here’s a new bottle I want your opinion of. If you ever drank a glass of claret like it, it will be a wonder to me.”
John stood hesitating for a moment. Then he took his seat again. If he was to quarrel with this fellow, better, he thought, to have it out.
“You want to question me,” he said; “then do so simply, and you shall have my answer. I am unaware what the point is; but whatever it is, speak out—I do not understand hints. I am quite at your service if I can furnish you with any information.
“Go away, Doctor,” said Torrance, with another push. “Tell them we’re coming. I’ll be in time to shake hands with Mrs. Stirling: join the ladies—that’s the right thing to do.”
The minister was in a great strait. He stood looking from one to another. Then he went out slowly, closing the door softly behind him, but lingering in the anteroom, that if any conflict of voices arose, he might be at hand to interfere. Torrance himself was sobered by the gravity of the proceeding. He did not speak immediately, but sat and stared at the companion with whom he was thus left tête-à-tête. He had not expected that John would have courage to meet this interrogation; and notwithstanding his pertinacity, he was disconcerted. Erskine met his gaze calmly, and said, “You wanted to ask me some questions. I am quite at your disposal now.”
“Question?—no, not so much a question,” faltered the other, coming to himself. “I’m sure—I beg your pardon—no offence was meant. I asked—for information.”
“And I shall be glad to give you any I possess.”
Torrance made a pause again; then he burst out suddenly—“Hang it, man, I didn’t mean to give you any offence! I asked you—there couldn’t be a simpler question—what was the name of the place where—you met my—you met the Lindores—”
“The place was a mountain inn on the way to Zermatt—a very secluded place. We were there only about six weeks. Mr. Lindores (then) and his family were very friendly to us because of my name, which he knew. I suppose you have some ulterior meaning in these questions. What is it? I will answer you in all respects, but I ought to know what it means first.”
Torrance was entirely cowed. “It means nothing at all,” he said. “I daresay I am an idiot. I wanted to know—”
“We were there six weeks,” repeated John—“an idle set of young men, far better pleased with mountain expeditions than with our books. We did little or nothing; but we were always delighted to meet a family-party so pleasant and friendly. There we parted, not knowing if we should meet again. I did not even know that Mr. Lindores had come to the title. When I found them here it was the greatest surprise to me. I had never even heard—”
“Erskine,” cried Torrance—by this time he had drank several more glasses of wine, and was inclined to emotion—“Erskine, you’re an honest fellow! Whoever likes may take my word for it. You’re an honest fellow! Now my mind’s at rest. I might have gone on suspecting and doubting, and—well, you know a man never can be sure: but when another fellow stands up to him honest and straightforward—” he said, getting up to his feet with a slight lurch towards John, as if he would have thrown himself upon his shoulder; and then he laughed with a gurgle in his breath, and thrust his arm through that of his reluctant guest. “We’re friends for life,” said Torrance; “you’re an honest fellow! I always had a fancy for you, John Erskine. Letsh join the ladies, as that old fogy of a Doctor said.”
The old fogy of a Doctor, who had been hanging about in alarm lest he might be called upon to stop a quarrel, had no more than time to hurry on before them and get inside the drawing-room door, before the master of the house pushed in, still holding John by the arm. “Here,”
