“Sir,” said Albert Seyton, “if you have any fault to find, find it with me and not with Harry. If he has done wrong, it was my fault; and—and—”
“And what, young sir?”
“I suppose I must fight you,” added Albert.
“Brat! beggar’s brat!” shrieked Gray, rushing towards the box. “What have you seen—what have you done?”
“Seen very little, and done nothing,” said Albert.
Gray aimed a blow at Harry, which was warded by Albert, who cried,—
“For shame, sir—for shame to strike him. By Heavens! Mr. Gray, if you hurt Harry I’ll just go to Sir Francis Hartleton, and tell him there is something that concerns him in your big box here.”
Jacob Gray stood with his aim uplifted, as if paralysed at this threat. He trembled violently, and sank into a chair. Several times he tried to speak, and at length he said, with a forced smile, which sat hideously upon his distorted features,—
“Well—well, it’s not much matter. Never mind, Harry, I—I have come back, you see, so there need be no appeal made to the kindness of Sir Francis in your behalf. It was—that is, the papers merely say you were an orphan, and ask him to do something for you: but no matter—no matter.”
“Then you forgive Harry?” said Seyton.