“In the picture on the wall, sir.”
“Whose picture, Falby?”
“Sir Gaston Belward, Sir.”
A smile lurked at the corners of Gaston’s mouth.
“Gaston Belward. Very well, then you know what to say to Sir William. Show me into the library.”
“Or the justices’ room, sir?”
“The justices’ room will do.”
Gaston wondered what the justices’ room was. A moment after he stood in it, and the dazed Falby had gone, trying vainly to reconcile the picture on the wall, which, now that he could think, he knew was very old, with this strange man who had sent a curious cold shiver through him. But, anyhow, he was a Belward, that was certain: voice, face, manner showed it. But with something like no Belward he had ever seen. Left to himself, Gaston looked round on a large, severe room. Its use dawned on him. This was part of the life: Sir William was a Justice of the Peace. But why had he been brought here? Why not to the library as himself had suggested? There would be some awkward hours for Falby in the future. Gaston had as winning a smile, as sweet a manner, as any one in the world, so long as a straight game was on; but to cross his will with the other—he had been too long a power in that wild country where his father had also been a power! He did not quite know how long he waited, for he was busy with plans as to his career at Ridley Court. He was roused at last by Falby’s entrance. A keen, cold look shot from under his straight brows.
“Well?” he asked.
“Will you step into the library, sir? Sir William will see you there.”