Mr. Verner looked glad when Lionel appeared. The ageing man, enfeebled
with sickness, had grown to lean on the strong young intellect. As much
as it was in Mr. Verner's nature to love anything, he loved Lionel. He
beckoned him to a chair beside himself.

"Yes, sir, in an instant," nodded Lionel. "Matthew," he whispered,
laying his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder as he passed, and
bending down to him with his sympathising eyes, his pleasant voice, "I
am grieved for this as if it had been my own sister. Believe me."

"I know it; I know you, Mr. Lionel," was the faint answer. "Don't unman
me, sir, afore 'em here; leave me to myself."

With a pressure of his hand on the shoulder ere he quitted it, Lionel
turned to Frederick Massingbird, asking of him particulars in an
undertone.

"I don't know them myself," replied Frederick, his accent a haughty one.
"There seems to be nothing but uncertainty and mystery. Mr. Verner ought
not to have inquired into it in this semi-public way. Very disagreeable
things have been said, I assure you. There was not the least necessity
for allowing such absurdities to go forth, as suspicions, to the public.
You have not been running from the Willow Pond at a strapping pace, I
suppose, to-night?".

"That I certainly have not," replied Lionel.

"Neither has John, I am sure," returned Frederick resentfully. "It is
not likely. And yet that boy of Mother Duff's--"