My lord swept a magnificent leg to the assembled company. “I am late!” he exclaimed. “I offer a thousand apologies!”
“No, sir, no, almost to the minute,” Mr Brent told him.
Mr Rensley was looking with dislike upon my lord’s companions. My lord addressed him at once. “You scowl upon my friends, cousin. But you must remember that I have the right to bring whom I will to this interview.” He turned to Mr Clapperly. “Is that not so?”
“Oh, perfectly, sir! There can be no objection. Pray, will you not be seated, gentlemen?”
They were grouped about a table that stood in the middle of the room. My lord sat at the end of the table, with old Mr Clapperly opposite to him. My lord produced his snuff-box, and unfobbed it. “And now my cousin Rensley wants to put some questions to me,” he said gently. “There is no reason why I should answer any of them. I stand proved already Tremaine of Barham. You have tried to find that I stole my papers, and you have failed, gentlemen. I condole with you. Let me hear your questions; I shall endeavour to satisfy you.”
There was an uncomfortable air of strain in the room; my lord was too much master of the situation. Rensley sat on Mr Clapperly’s right hand, and scowled at the table. Mr Clapperly had begged him to leave all to his men of business, and he had agreed to hold his peace. He did not look at my lord; the sight of that smiling countenance enraged him to the point of desperation.
Mr Fontenoy preserved his prim severity; my Lord Clevedale lounged beside the old gentleman, and was frankly agog with curiosity. Burton and his sister sat together on one side of the table, and appeared to be rather bewildered.
Mr Brent signed to his clerk, who brought forward a leather case. Mr Brent opened this, and produced a slip of paper. It seemed to have been cut from a letter, for it was closely written over. “Perhaps, sir, you would be good enough to tell us if you recognise this writing,” he said courteously, and gave the slip to the clerk, who carried it to my lord.
My lord put out a white hand to receive it. He glanced at it, smiled, and gave it back. “Certainly,” he said. “It is my father’s hand.”
Mr Rensley shot a quick look at him, and bit his lip.