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"I don't mean that; but how could you look?" "It means—the missing will," returns she, in a voice that would have done credit to a priestess of Delphi. As she delivers this oracular sentence, she points almost tragically towards the wall in question. "Oh, my lady, if I must speak," cries the old man, "but it is terrible news to tell without a word of warning. Mr. Paul Rodney is dying: he shot himself half an hour ago, and is lying now at Rawson's Lodge in the beech wood.".
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"I am not going to suffer," says Mona, lightly. "Sorrow only falls on every second generation; and you know poor mother was very unhappy at one time: therefore I am free. You will call that superstition, but," with a grave shake of her head, "it is quite true." "Well, practically speaking, no. But I believe she has a sister somewhere." Then Mona says, in a trembling voice and rather disconnectedly, because of her emotion, "Be quite sure you shall be—buried—where all the other baronets of Rodney lie at rest." It is dreary waiting. No sleep comes to her eyes; she barely moves; the dogs slumber drowsily, and moan and start in their sleep, "fighting their battles o'er again," it may be, or anticipating future warfare. Slowly, ominously, the clock strikes twelve. Two hours have slipped into eternity; midnight is at hand!.
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