“Grenfell—Grenfell! to be sure. I know the name—we all know it,” said Luttrell, with a sort of sneer. “Is Vyner come—is he with you?”
“No, Sir,” said Grenfell, smarting under the sting of what he felt to be an insult. “It is because he could not come that he asked me to see you.”
Luttrell made no reply, but stood waiting for the other to continue.
“I have come on a gloomy errand, Mr. Luttrell, and wish you would prepare yourself to hear very, very sad news.”
“What do you call prepare?” cried Luttrell, in a voice almost a shriek. “I know of nothing that prepares a man for misfortune except its frequency,” muttered he, in a low tone. “What is it? Is it of Harry—of my boy?”
Grenfell nodded.
“Wait,” said Luttrell, pressing his hand over his brow. “Let me go in. No, Sir; I can walk without help.” He grasped the door-post as he spoke, and stumbling onward, clutching the different objects as he went, gained a chair, and sank into it. “Tell me now,” said he, in a faint whisper.
“Be calm, Mr. Luttrell,” said Grenfell, gently. “I have no need to say, take courage.”
Luttrell stared vacantly at him, his lips parted, and his whole expression that of one who was stunned and overcome. “Go on,” said he, in a hoarse whisper—“go on.”
“Compose yourself first,” said Grenfell.