And waited, as before the Court of last appeal.
CHAPTER II
The older man sat limp in his chair, and stared until the ash of his cigar tumbled, untidily, over his waistcoat. He brushed at it with uncertain, ineffective motions, but his eyes never left his nephew. He put the cigar once more to his lips, shuddered, and flung it away.
“Boy––” he said, at length, “Boy––is that true?”
Henry cleared his throat. “Yes, Uncle John.”
“Who is it? Anna Barklay?”
“Yes, Uncle John.”
“When?”