A groom, on a big bay hunter, came clattering into the courtyard, started at the sight that met him there, leaped off his horse, and walking up to the lawyer, touched his hat and held out a yellow envelope:
“Telegram—for you, sir.”
The old gentleman’s hands shook as he tore open the cover.
He read it; and, as he read, his face went deathly pale:
“Good God!” said he.
He glanced at the striding figure of the lord of this splendid place, who paced up and down the courtyard.
“That will do, my man,” said he. “There is no answer.... Stay! keep that horse saddled—I may want you—and before long.”
The groom saluted and went and stood by the horse.
The lawyer gazed under his brows at the striding lord; watched him take a couple of turns; went at last and set himself across his path. The other halted when he came to him.
“Lord Wyntwarde,” said the old lawyer hoarsely—“I must go back to town at once. Our arguments are at an end—the reason for them is at an end.... Your son is beyond the reach of penalty.” The old man took off his hat. “He must plead before a more august judge than his own father.”