“No, sir. It remains for the coroners inquest, which is to assemble immediately.”
“Had Rutledge any political enemies? Is it supposed that the event was in any way connected with party?”
“That could scarcely be,” said Fagan. “He was one who gave himself little concern about state affairs,—an easy fop that fluttered about the Court, caring for little above the pleasures of his valueless existence!”
“For such men you have few sympathies, Fagan!”
“None, sir, not one. Their history is ever the same,—a life of debauch, a death of violence!”
“This is to speak hardly, Fagan,” said my father, mildly. “Men like poor Rutledge have their good qualities, though they be not such as you and I set store by. I never thought so myself, but others, indeed, deemed him a most amusing companion, and with more than an ordinary share of wit and pleasantry.”
“The wit and pleasantry were both exerted to make his friends ridiculous, sir,” said Fagan, severely. “He was a man that lived upon a reputation for smartness, gained at the expense of every good feeling.”
“I'll wager a trifle, Tony,” said my father, laughing, “that he died deep in your books. Come, be frank, and say how much this unhappy affair will cost you.”
“Not so dearly as it may you, sir,” whispered Fagan in my father's ear; and the words nearly overcame him.
“How so?—what do you mean?” muttered my father, in a broken, faltering voice.