It was five o’clock in the morning of the day after the interview described in the last chapter; and Mr. Heathcote was seated at the writing-table in his private office.
He was busily occupied with papers;—for his was a disposition that could not endure idleness. Even when vexed and annoyed—as he was at present—it was impossible for him to remain inactive. Had he been an author, he would have eclipsed Walter Scott or Paul de Koek in the number of his works.
There was a deep gloom upon his brow and a sinister light in his restless eyes, as he bent over the parchment-deeds which he was inspecting; and from time to time he cast an anxious glance towards the door.
At length be rang the bell; and the junior clerk answered the summons.
“Has not Mr. Green made his appearance yet?” demanded the lawyer, with an emphasis on the last word.
“No, sir—he has not,” was the reply, given timidly—for the young man beheld both the gloom on the brow and the gleaming in the eye.
“Not yet!” ejaculated Heathcote, fiercely, and frowning in his own peculiar fashion at the same time. “Nor sent either?” he added, interrogatively.
“No, sir,” responded the junior clerk.
“This is strange—very strange,” murmured the lawyer. “He can’t be ill—poor devils like him cannot afford to be unwell. But if he were,—if he did happen to be so indisposed that be couldn’t shut his eyes to the fact,—he would have sent word. You know where he lives? demanded Mr. Heathcote, abruptly addressing himself to the young man.