“And who’s he?” asked his master, turning the letter over, as though to find out by looking at the seal.
“Oh, a man of consequence, if we’re to judge by the way he’s clothed.”
“Fit company, then?” his master asked, as he opened the heavily sealed letter.
“Well, I’m not saying that, for there’s no company good enough for us,” answered the higgledy-piggledy butler, with a quirk of the mouth; “but, as messengers go, I never seen one with more style and point.”
“Well, bring him to me,” said Miles Calhoun. “Bring him to me, and I’ll form my own judgment—though I have some confidence in yours.”
“You could go further and fare worse, as the Papists say about purgatory,” answered the old man with respectful familiarity.
Captain Ivy and Dyck grinned, but the head of the house seemed none too pleased at the freedom of the old butler.
“Bring him as he is,” said Miles Calhoun. “Good God!” he added, for he just realized that the stamp of the seal was that of the Attorney-General of Ireland.
Then he read the letter and a flush swept over his face, making its red almost purple.
“Eternal damnation—eternal damnation!” he declared, holding the paper at arm’s length a moment, inspecting it. He then handed it to Dyck. “Read that, lad. Then pack your bag, for we start for Dublin by daylight or before.”