Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.
D. Wragg on Principle.
“Sarvant, sir—sarvant, sir!” exclaimed D. Wragg, flourishing his hat first at Sir Francis, and then at Harry Clayton, while he worked and jerked himself about in a way that was perfectly frightful to contemplate. “Just give me a minute. I won’t keep you both more than that, only I couldn’t rest without coming in to tell you as it does us at home so much good ’cos that young gent’s found, as you can’t tell.”
Sir Francis knit his brow as he listened, for he could not help associating the man before him with the cause of Lionel’s disappearance; but he did not speak.
“Ah! I see you’re cross about it,” said D. Wragg, who caught the frown; “but never mind if you are; we’re glad all the same. You thought we had to do with it?”
“My good fellow, yes!” exclaimed Sir Francis, hastily; for this touched him upon a tender point—he had been unjust. “Yes; we did think so, and I beg your pardon for it most heartily. It was a gross piece of injustice, and I beg that you will forgive it. If—”
“You’re a reg’lar, thorough-bred, game gentleman! that’s what you are,” said D. Wragg; “and I respect you, sir, that I do. And if you’re sorry for having my place searched, why, there’s an end of it; and as to forgiving you, why, we won’t say any more about that.”
“But if money—” continued Sir Francis.