I went. Dr. Chéron was standing on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his arms folded over his breast. An open letter, bordered broadly with black, lay upon his desk. Although distant some two yards from the table, his eyes were fixed upon this paper. When I came in he looked up, pointed to a seat, but himself remained standing and silent.
"Basil Arbuthnot," he said, after a pause of some minutes, "I have this morning received a letter from England, by the early post."
"From my father, sir?"
"No. From a stranger,"
He looked straight at me as he said this, and hesitated.
"But it contains news," he added, "that--that much concerns you."
There was a fixed gravity about the lines of his handsome mouth, and an unwonted embarrassment in his manner, that struck me with apprehension.
"Good news, I--I hope, sir," I faltered.
"Bad news, my young friend," said he, compassionately. "News that you must meet like a man, with fortitude--with resignation. Your father--your excellent father--my honored friend--"
He pointed to the letter and turned away.