‘Martin! Go and tell my father to come here—to the armoury—at once. Tell him there’s a fellow here out of his mind.’
I remained quiet, with my scabbard in one hand, and the rapier in the other—a dangerous weapon enough, for it was, though slight, as sharp as a needle, and I knew it for a bit of excellent temper. Brotherton stood outside waiting for his father. In a few moments I heard the voice of the old man.
‘Boys! boys!’ he cried; ‘what is all this to do?’
‘Why, sir,’ answered Geoffrey, trying to be calm, ‘here’s that fellow Cumbermede confesses to have stolen the most valuable of the swords out of the armoury—one that’s been in the family for two hundred years, and says he means to keep it.’
I just caught the word liar ere it escaped my lips: I would spare the son in his father’s presence.
‘Tut! tut!’ said Sir Giles. ‘What does it all mean? You’re at your old quarrelsome tricks, my boy! Really you ought to be wiser by this time!’
As he spoke, he entered panting, and with the rubicund glow beginning to return upon a face from which the message had evidently banished it.
‘Tut! tut!’ he said again, half starting back as he caught sight of me with the weapon in my hand—‘What is it all about, Mr Cumbermede? I thought you had more sense!’
‘Sir Giles,’ I said, ‘I have not confessed to having stolen the sword—only to having taken it.’
‘A very different thing,’ he returned, trying to laugh. ‘But come now; tell me all about it. We can’t have quarrelling like this, you know. We can’t have pot-house work here.’