“Who defended him?” I whispered, gulping; for I knew something of the legal terms.
The answer took me like a smack.
“Your father, sir.”
“O!” I exclaimed, thrilling. And then, after a pause, with a pride of loyalty: “He got him off, didn’t he?”
Mr. Quayle put me down, and yawned dyspeptically.
“What!” he said. “If any man can, papa will. I ask your pardon, Master Dicky, I really do, for palming off fact instead of fiction on you. But my poor brain wasn’t equal. The case is actually sub judice—being tried at this moment. Yesterday began it, and to-day will end. If you whisper to me to-night, I’ll whisper back the result.”
The delay seemed insupportable. He had read and worked me up to the last chapter of the story, and now proposed to leave me agonising for the end. It was the first time I had ever been brought so close to the living romance of the law, and my blood was on fire with the excitement of it.
“O, I wish——” I began.
The barrister looked down at me oddly, and shook his head.
“Ah, you little rogue!” he chuckled.