"
"A young gentleman, and sent by me?" Langholm's face was blank until a
harsh light broke over it. "What's his name, Mrs. Brunton?"
"I can't tell you, sir. He said he was a friend of yours, and that was
all before he took ill. He's been too bad to answer questions all day.
And then we knew you'd soon be here to tell us."
"A foreigner, I suppose?"
"I should say he was, sir."
"And did he really tell you I had sent him?"
"Well, I can't say he did, not in so many words, but that was what I
thought he meant. It was like this, sir," continued Mrs. Brunton, as
they stood face to face on the wet gravel: "just about this time
yesterday I was busy ironing, when my nephew, the lad you used to send
with letters, who's here again for his summer holidays, comes to me an'
says, 'You're wanted.' So I went, and there was a young gentleman
looking fit to drop. He'd a bag with him, and he'd walked all the way
from Upthorpe station, same as I suppose you have now; but yesterday was
the hottest day we've had, and I never did see living face so like the
dead. He had hardly life enough to ask if this was where you lived; and
when I said it was, but you were away, he nodded and said he'd just seen
you in London; and he was sure he might come in and rest a bit.
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