Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael. A Novel онлайн

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“Satyr,” said the man, scratching his head in some perplexity; “he ain’t used to harness; he’ll fidget a good bit.”

“Folly! don’t make obstacles; he’ll do very well. If anyone asks you about the boxes, say that I am getting some wine; the goods will come in wine cases, so your story will sound all right. By the way, Samson, I shall leave here by the two o’clock train. I am supposed to be on my way to Liverpool if anyone asks, but——” here Rowton’s voice dropped to a low whisper. Samson came close, bent his head slightly forward, listened with all his ears, and nodded once or twice emphatically. He was about to leave the room when he suddenly came back.

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that old Dr. Follett is dead.”

“Ah! how did you hear that?” asked Rowton, who was in the act of pouring out a cup of coffee.

“The milkman brought me the news. He died between three and four this morning. The wench will be in a fine taking—she was bound up, they say, in that queer old character.”

“That is enough, Samson; I prefer not to discuss Miss Follett. Thanks, you can leave me alone now.”