“I do not need to be shown the way in a house where I have drunk many a bottle of good claret,” cried a deep voice in reply; and there in the doorway stood the broad figure of Squire Ovington in his buckskins and top-boots, a riding-crop in his hand. Sir Lothian Hume was at his elbow, and I saw the faces of two country constables peeping over his shoulders.
“Lord Avon,” said the squire, “as a magistrate of the county of Sussex, it is my duty to tell you that a warrant is held against you for the wilful murder of your brother, Captain Barrington, in the year 1786.”
“I am ready to answer the charge.”
“This I tell you as a magistrate. But as a man, and the Squire of Rougham Grange, I’m right glad to see you, Ned, and here’s my hand on it, and never will I believe that a good Tory like yourself, and a man who could show his horse’s tail to any field in the whole Down county, would ever be capable of so vile an act.”
“You do me justice, James,” said Lord Avon, clasping the broad, brown hand which the country squire had held out to him. “I am as innocent as you are; and I can prove it.”
“Damned glad I am to hear it, Ned! That is to say, Lord Avon, that any defence which you may have to make will be decided upon by your peers and by the laws of your country.”
“Until which time,” added Sir Lothian Hume, “a stout door and a good lock will be the best guarantee that Lord Avon will be there when called for.”
The squire’s weather-stained face flushed to a deeper red as he turned upon the Londoner.
“Are you the magistrate of a county, sir?”
“I have not the honour, Sir James.”