At half-past twelve Mr. Roquevillard came home for lunch.
“Serve us quickly, Melanie,” he called out from the doorway. “I’ve not much time.”
The look of battle was in his eyes, a frown on his brow, his gaze direct and piercing. The muscles of his face were taut, and his recent sorrow and anxiety had made him look much older; but his commanding will checked for the time being the ravages of age and fatigue and trouble.
“Well, father?” inquired Margaret piteously.
He reassured her in a few words.
“The hearing reopens in two hours.”
“It’s not over yet?”
“No, no.”
“What’s happened?”
“Didn’t you see anything of it, little girl?”