He took a step
towards the fireplace, intending to ring the bell.
"Sit down, and wait," Mat reiterated, in quick, fierce, quietly uttered
tones of command, rising from his own chair, and pointing peremptorily
to the seat just vacated by the master of the house.
A sudden doubt crossed Mr. Thorpe's mind, and made him pause before he
touched the bell. Could this man be in his right senses? His actions
were entirely unaccountable--his words and his way of uttering them
were alike strange--his scarred, scowling face looked hardly human at
that moment. Would it be well to summon help? No, worse than useless.
Except the page, who was a mere boy, there were none but women servants
in the house. When he remembered this, he sat down again, and at the
same moment Mat began, clumsily and slowly, to write on the blank space
beneath the last signature attached to the Address.
The sky was still darkening apace, the rain was falling heavily and
more heavily, as he traced the final letter, and then handed the paper
to Mr. Thorpe, bearing inscribed on it the name of MARY GRICE.
"Read that name," said Mat.
Mr. Thorpe looked at the characters traced by the pencil. His face
changed instantly--he sank down into the chair--one faint cry burst
from his lips--then he was silent.
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