“Bill Soames—he’s nabbed for robbing the Bishop of Ely, crossing the open waste opposite Tyburn Gate.”
“No, its quite private business of another kind,” said Mr. Seyton. “There is my card—this is my son. Please to tell Sir Frederick that we have a private communication to make to him alone.”
The man took the card and passed through a doorway, growling as he went.
In a few moments he returned, and taking a key from a bunch at his girdles he opened a door at the further end of the passage, at the same time saying,—
“This way.”
Albert and his father stepped forward after their guide. In a moment another door opened, from which issued a stream of light, and they found themselves in the presence of Sir Frederick Hartleton, the magistrate, the terror of highwaymen; several of whom he had himself captured on Hounslow and Barnes’ Commons.
He rose courteously on the entrance of the Seytons, and invited them to be seated. Before they could speak, he said rapidly,—
“Gentlemen, I trust you will not take any offence at my saying that my time is very much occupied, and begging you to be brief.”
“The time of public affairs, sir,” said Mr. Seyton, “should never be heedlessly wasted. Do you know a man named Gray?”
“Gray—Gray?” repeated Sir Frederick Hartleton. “No, sir, I do not.”