“Anything else? No,” he said, with a grim smile. “That will do, thanks. When will the Orion arrive?”
The man referred him to a calendar and told him.
“There or thereabouts,” he said. “She’s a fine vessel.”
“Ah, so I’ve heard,” said poor Cecil, not knowing what he was saying; and, wishing the clerk good-day, he made his way out.
At the door he paused and took off his hat in a confused kind of way, as a man does who has received news which is either too good or too bad to be realized all at once; and as he stood there, he felt a hand upon his shoulder. Looking round, he saw that it was the persistent personage in the brown hat.
“Lord Cecil, Viscount Neville, I believe?” he said, quietly and respectfully enough.
“Yes, I am Lord Neville,” said Cecil. “What do you want?” he added, with weary surprise.
The man took a paper from his breast pocket.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, my lord,” he said, “but I’m a sheriff’s officer, and I have to arrest you on a debt warrant.”
“Arrest me?” said Lord Cecil, not with the surprise the man doubtless expected. Lord Cecil would not have been surprised that morning if he had been arrested for murder. “I don’t understand——”