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His head was lowered so that his features were invisible, but a dull, warm flush overspread his cheeks. "And your brother, Doggott?" "I'm sorry, sir, about that; but it was Mr. Rutton's order," muttered the man.
What did he, Amber, know of Rutton's parentage or history that would refute the calm belief of the body-servant of the dead man? Rutton himself had consistently kept sealed lips upon the subject of his antecedents; in Amber's intercourse with him the understanding that what had passed was a closed book had been implicit.
"And by the simplest of solutions. Strange that I should never have thought before to-night of " He glanced carelessly toward the window; and it was as if his lips had been wiped clean of speech. Amber turned, thrilling, his flesh creeping with the horror that he had divined in Rutton's transfixed gaze.
Amber remarked that the medicine was having its effect; though the brilliance of Rutton's eyes seemed somewhat dimmed a dull flush had crept into his dark cheeks, and when he spoke it was in stronger accents with a manner more assured, composed. "A mad dance," he observed thoughtfully: "this thing we call life. We meet and whirl asunder motes in a sunbeam.
Moreover he had forgotten to remove the Token from his finger, and Quain instantly remarked it and demanded an explanation. But of the nature of the errand on which he was to go, Amber said nothing; it was, he averred, Rutton's private business. Nor did he touch upon the question of Rutton's nationality. Sophia Farrell he never mentioned.
Rutton's expression was masked by the shadows; Amber could make nothing of his curious reticence, and remained silent, waiting a further explanation. It came, presently, with an effect of embarrassment. "I had have peculiar reasons for not wishing my refuge here to be discovered. I told Doggott to be careful, should he meet any one we knew. Although, of course, neither of us anticipated...."
He was not credulous of the power of divination popularly ascribed to the Oriental; he was little inclined to believe that the nature of his errand to India had been guessed, or that any native intelligence in India knew or suspected the secret of Sophia Farrell's parentage Rutton's solicitude to the contrary notwithstanding.
"Doggott," he asked in an even, toneless voice, "have you ever mentioned to anybody your suspicion about Mr. Rutton's race?" "Only to you, sir." "That's good. And you won't?" "No, sir." "Have you," continued Amber, looking away and speaking slowly, "ever heard him mention his marriage?" "Never, sir.
Yet this task, too, must be gone through with. "Mr. Rutton spoke of a despatch-box, Doggott. You know where to find it?" "Yes, sir." The servant brought from Rutton's leather trunk a battered black-japanned tin box, which, upon exploration, proved to contain little that might not have been anticipated.
"I'd suggest that you deposit it as soon as possible in a New York bank for collection. In the meantime, these bills are yours; you'd better take care of them yourself until you open the banking account. I'll keep Mr. Rutton's bank-book with the cheque."
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