"No, no—ah! I pray you—"
"Nay," said Barnabas, "if you will, and if need be, pray for me." So saying he put her gently aside, and entering the inn, came to the door of that room wherein he had written the letter to his father.
"I tell you I'll kill him, Dalton," said a soft, deliberate voice.
"Undoubtedly; the light's excellent; but, my dear fellow, why—?"
"I object to him strongly, for one thing, and—"
The voice was hushed suddenly, as Barnabas set wide the door and stepped into the room, with Peterby at his heels.
Mr. Chichester was seated at the table with a glass beside him, but Barnabas looked past him to his companion who sprawled on the other side of the hearth—a sleepy, sighing gentleman, very high as to collar, very tight as to waist, and most ornate as to waistcoat; young he was certainly, yet with his first glance, Barnabas knew instinctively that this could not be the youth he sought. Nevertheless he took off his hat and saluted him with a bow that for stateliness left the "stiff-legged gentleman" nowhere.
"Sir," said he, "pray what might your name be?"
Instead of replying, the sleepy gentleman opened his eyes rather wider than was usual and stared at Barnabas with a growing surprise, stared at him from head to foot and up again, then, without changing his lounging attitude, spoke:
"Oh, Gad, Chichester!—is this the—man?"