“We are not our own masters here, my boy,” said the old man, speaking in a low and reverent tone. “My Luke has never shrunk from his duty yet, and never will.”
Luke sank back in silence, and for a long time no word was spoken. Then he suddenly rose and rang the bell.
“See if Mr Serjeant Towle is in,” he said to the boy, and upon the report being received that the serjeant was within, Luke descended and had ten minutes’ conversation with that great legal luminary, who, after a little consideration, said, as Luke rose to go—
“Well, yes, Ross, I will, if it’s only for the sake of giving you a good thrashing. You are going on too fast, and a little check will do you good. If I take the brief I shall get him off. Send his solicitors to me.”
Five minutes later Luke was with his father.
“Go and see Mrs Mallow at once, father,” he said, “and bid her tell her solicitors to wait upon Mr Serjeant Towle.”
“Yes, my boy—Mr Serjeant Towle,” said the old man, obediently.
“He will require an enormous fee, father, which you will pay.”
“Yes, my boy, of course. Is—is he a great man?”
“One of the leading counsel at the bar; and if Cyril Mallow can be got off, Serjeant Towle is the man for the task.”