This was said at a tremendous pace, and with a very strong French accent, for, as Mademoiselle Justine grew excited, so did she forget her good English, and began to return towards the language of the land of her birth.
“What’s been done?” said Tom, shortly.
“Aunt sent directly for Mr Hurkle, and then Sir Grantley went after him as well.”
“Curse Mr Hurkle,” cried Tom, and he hurried out of the room, and dashed, two steps at a time, downstairs, and nearly tumbled over one of the footmen, who looked quite scared.
“You’re always in the way,” cried Tom, savagely, and he dashed into the library, where he found Lord Barmouth busy with trembling hands examining a very old pair of flintlock duelling pistols.
“Hallo, dad!” cried Tom, “none of that. You’re not tired of life?”
“No, no, my son,” said the old gentleman; “damme, no, Tom, though it does get very hard sometimes. Tom, my boy, I’m going to find him out and shoot him.”
Tom slammed down the lid of the case, and pushed the old gentleman unresistingly back into an easy-chair.
“Now, look here, gov’nor, let’s talk sense,” he cried.
“Yes, my dear boy, I—I—I’m doosed glad you’ve come. We will—we will.”