As he spoke he rose quickly from his chair, gave his father a short nod, and opened the door, to find himself face to face with Pringle, whose hand was raised.
“Oh!” cried the clerk, starting. “Beg pardon, sir, I was just going to knock.”
“What is it?” cried James Brandon angrily, and turning pale in dread lest the clerk should have heard anything which had passed.
“These deeds, sir—finished the copying,” said the man quietly, and with a look of surprise that his employer should have asked him what he wanted.
“Oh yes; put them down,” said Brandon hastily.
“What shall I go on with next?”
“The letters I told you about last night.”
“Cert’ny, sir, of course,” said Pringle; and he hurried out of the room, leaving father and son staring at each other across the table.
“Think he heard, Sam?” said James Brandon, looking more ghastly than ever.
“No, not he. Couldn’t have heard more than a word or two. He daren’t listen.”