CHAPTER XII.
EARLIER than usual on the morning of Thursday, the twenty-third of July,
Mr. Clare appeared at the door of his cottage, and stepped out into the
little strip of garden attached to his residence.
After he had taken a few turns backward and forward, alone, he was
joined by a spare, quiet, gray-haired man, whose personal appearance was
totally devoid of marked character of any kind; whose inexpressive
face and conventionally-quiet manner presented nothing that attracted
approval and nothing that inspired dislike. This was Mr. Pendril--this
was the man on whose lips hung the future of the orphans at Combe-Raven.
"The time is getting on," he said, looking toward the shrubbery, as he
joined Mr. Clare.
"My appointment with Miss Garth is for eleven o'clock: it only wants ten
minutes of the hour."
"Are you to see her alone?" asked Mr. Clare.
"I left Miss Garth to decide--after warning her, first of all, that the
circumstances I am compelled to disclose are of a very serious nature."
"And _has_ she decided?"
"She writes me word that she mentioned my appointment, and repeated
the warning I had given her to both the daughters.
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