“You are right. No.”
“Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester tonight?”
“A home question!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a slight smile and cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. “No, not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“All things considered, I had better decline answering that question, Lady Dedlock. If I were to say I don’t know when, exactly, you would not believe me, and it would answer no purpose. It may be tomorrow. I would rather say no more. You are prepared, and I hold out no expectations which circumstances might fail to justify. I wish you good evening.”
She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walks silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about to open it.
“Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you were writing in the library. Are you going to return there?”
“Only for my hat. I am going home.”
She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slight and curious, and he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at his watch but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts. There is a splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendid clocks not often are, for its accuracy. “And what do you say,” Mr. Tulkinghorn inquires, referring to it. “What do you say?”
If it said now, “Don’t go home!” What a famous clock, hereafter, if it said tonight of all the nights that it has counted off, to this old man of all the young and old men who have ever stood before it, “Don’t go home!” With its sharp clear bell it strikes three quarters after seven and ticks on