Knowing this, it was scarcely strange if Lionel Dale was in some degree
influenced by the gipsy's warning. He scanned the face of his cousin
with a searching gaze.
It was a handsome face--almost a perfect face; but was it the face of a
man who might be trusted by his fellow-men?
A careworn face--handsome though it was. There was a nervous
restlessness about the thin lips, a feverish light in the dark blue
eyes.
More than once during the prolonged encounter at chess, Reginald
Eversleigh had drawn aside one of the window-curtains, to look out upon
the night.
Mr. Mordaunt, a devoted lover of all field-sports, was also restless
and uneasy about the weather, peeping out every now and then, and
announcing, in a tone of disappointment, the continuance of the frost.
In Mr. Mordaunt this was perfectly natural; but Lionel Dale knew that
his cousin was not a man who cared for hunting. Why, then, was he so
anxious about the meet which was to have taken place to-morrow?
His anxiety evidently was about the meet; for after looking out of the
window for the third time, he exclaimed, with an accent of triumph--
"I congratulate you, gentlemen; you may have your run to-morrow. It no
longer freezes, and there is a drizzling rain falling."
Mr. Mordaunt ran out of the drawing-room, and returned in about five
minutes with a radiant face.
"I have been to look at the weathercock in the stable-yard," he said;
"Sir Reginald Eversleigh is quite right.
Pages:
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455