They sat hand clasped in hand for a few moments, and then the old man said softly—
“God will bless you for your goodness to that poor woman, my boy. I know it has been a hard fight, but you have won. It is heaping coals of fire on your enemy’s head to do good to him, and maybe afterwards Cyril Mallow may repent. But, Luke, my boy,” he cried, cheerfully, “I’m a stupid old man, only you must humour me.”
“How, father?”
“Let me see you, just for a minute, in your wig and gown.”
“Nonsense, father!”
“But I should like it, my boy.” Luke rose to humour him, putting on wig and gown, and making the old man rub his hands with gratification as he gazed at the clear, intelligent face, with its deeply set, searching eyes.
“I’ll be bound to say you puzzle and frighten some of them, my boy,” said the old man. “And that’s a brief, is it?”
“Yes, father,” said Luke, smiling down on the old man, so full of childlike joy.
“Ah, yes,” said the old man, putting on a pair of broad-rimmed spectacles, and then reading—“Jones versus Lancaster.”
“Hah! yes, nicely written; better than this fifty gs. What does that mean?”