“He told me everything; and if I had not been so cruelly badgered, I could have repeated every word of it; but you never made a hound true to the scent by flogging him, Tom,—is n't that a fact, eh?” And consoled by an illustration that seemed so pat to his case, he took his hat and strolled out into the garden.
CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL CONYERS
In a snug little room of the Old Ship Hotel, at Dover, a large, heavy man, with snow-white hair, and moustaches,—the latter less common in those days than the present,—sat at table with a younger one, so like him that no doubt could have existed as to their being father and son. They had dined, and were sitting over their wine, talking occasionally, but oftener looking fondly and affectionately at each other; and once, by an instinct of sudden love, grasping each other's hand, and sitting thus several minutes without a word on either side.
“You did not expect me before to-morrow, Fred,” said the old man, at last.
“No, father,” replied young Conyers. “I saw by the newspapers that you were to dine at the Tuileries on Tuesday, and I thought you would not quit Paris the same evening.”
“Yes; I started the moment I took off my uniform. I wanted to be with you, my boy; and the royal politeness that detained me was anything but a favor. How you have grown, Fred,—almost my own height, I believe.”
“The more like you the better,” said the youth, as his eyes ran over, and the old man turned away to hide his emotion.
After a moment he said: “How strange you should not have got my letters, Fred; but, after all, it is just as well as it is. I wrote in a very angry spirit, and was less just than a little cool reflection might have made me. They made no charges against me, though I thought they had. There were grumblings and discontents, and such-like. They called me a Rajah, and raked up all the old stories they used to circulate once on a time about a far better fellow—”
“You mean Colonel Barrington, don't you?” said Fred.