CHAPTER XXX.
Doctor Livingstone's concern was personal, that was plain in the way he
stood looking at the floor of the corridor with his hands in his
pockets, before Hilda reached him. Regret was written all over the lines
of his pausing figure, with the compressed irritation which saved that
feeling, in the Englishman's way, from being too obvious.
"This is a bad business, Miss Howe."
"I've just come over--I haven't heard. Who is it?"
"It's my cousin, poor chap--Arnold, the padre. He's been badly knifed in
the bazaar."
The news passed over her and left her looking with a curious face at
chance. It was lifted a little, with composed lips, and eyes which
refused to be taken by surprise. There was inquiry in them, also a
defence, a retreat. Chance looking back saw an invincible silent
readiness and a pallor which might be that of any woman. But the doctor
was also looking, so she said, "That is very sad," and moved near enough
to the wall to put her hand against it. She was not faint, but the wall
was a fact on which one could, for the moment, rely.
"They've got the man--one of those Cabuli moneylenders. The police had
no trouble with him.
Pages:
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386