Some one was
standing at the entrance-steps, with his head bent as if he were talking
to those nearest him in a low voice.
As she came up there ran a whisper of her name; the people drew back to
let her through, and she passed, sick with suspense, to the man on the
steps, whom she now recognised as Mr. James' body-servant. His face
looked odd and drawn, she thought.
"What is it?" she asked in a sharp whisper.
"Mr. James is here, madam; he is with Lady Maxwell in the cloister-wing.
Will you please to go up?"
"Mr. James! It is no news about Mr. Anthony--or--or Mr. Hubert!"
"No, madam." The man hesitated. "Mr. James has been racked, madam."
The man's voice broke in a great sob as he ended.
"Ah!"
She reeled against the post; a man behind caught her and steadied her;
and there was a quick breath of pity from the crowd.
"Ah, poor thing!" said a woman's voice behind her.
"I beg your pardon, madam," said the servant. "I should not have----"
"And--and he is upstairs?"
"He and my lady are together, madam."
She looked at him a moment, dazed with the horror of it; and then going
past him, pushed open the door and went through into the inner hall. Here
again she stopped suddenly: it was half full of people, silent and
expectant--the men, the grooms, the maid-servants, and even two or three
farm-men. She heard the rustle of her name from the white faces that
looked at her from the gloom; but none moved; and she crossed the hall
alone, and turned down the lower corridor that led to the cloister-wing.
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