He objected, however, to the ornaments on his wrists, and begged as a special favour to have them removed.
Mr. Todd declined to oblige him, and said that he would have to bear them till they reached the magistrate’s house.
Mr. Sutherland made a wry face, and declared that he was an injured person, and that the indignity was quite uncalled for, since he was a gentleman who was well able to meet the charge, and leave the court without a stain on his character.
Mr. Todd only smiled at the last observation, and so the two—the prisoner and the detective—walked on conversing in what might be considered to a casual observer in a friendly and jocund manner.
They had not very far to go, for the magistrate’s house was within three-quarters of a mile from the spot where the affray and capture had taken place.
The magistrate and his wife were at this time seated together in the old oak dining-room of their habitation. He was reading the pages of a book on heraldry, watching from the window the broods of rooks who were cawing as they flew from bough to bough.
These two persons lived in that which their tenants believed to be a palace, but which was in reality little better than a prison. They were forced to live in this great house, which they could hardly afford to repair, surrounded by these lands which were taxed in proportion to their extent, but which only yielded income in proportion to their real worth.
The squire was always anxious. He was buried in hopeless poverty, engaged in an endless struggle to keep up appearances.
His wife was always sad. Providence had given her but one real blessing—it was a son—and for this son, who had died in his youth, she had never ceased to grieve.
That is why her face was always pale and her eyes so hollow—that is why she lived but in a reverie, and so seldom spoke. Her thoughts were always in the past; she had nothing to care for in the present—nothing to hope for in the future.