Varbarriere having cast his eye over it, suddenly uttered an oath.
"Number 10—that's the gentleman. Go to number 10, and tell him his uncle wants him here," roared Varbarriere, as if on the point of knocking the harmless waiter down. "Read there!" he thundered, placing the slate, with a clang, before the meek attorney, who read opposite to number 10, "Mr. G. Deverell."
He pursed his mouth and looked up lackadaisically at his glowering client, saying only "Ha!"
A minute after and Guy Deverell in person entered the room. He extended his hand deferentially to M. Varbarriere, who on his part drew himself up black as night, and thrust his hands half way to the elbows in his trowsers pockets, glaring thunderbolts in the face of the contumacious young man.
"You see that?" jerking the slate with another clang before Guy. "Did you give that name? Look at number ten, sir." Varbarriere was now again speaking French.
"Yes, sir, Guy Deverell—my own name. I shall never again consent to go by any other. I had no idea what it might involve—never."
The young man was pale, but quite firm.
"You've broken your word, sir; you have ended your relations with me," said Varbarriere, with a horrible coldness.
"I am sorry, sir—I have broken my promise, but when I could not keep it without a worse deception. To the consequences, be they what they may, I submit, and I feel, sir, more deeply than you will ever know all the kindness you have shown me from my earliest childhood until now."
"Infinitely flattered," sneered Varbarriere, with a mock bow. "You have, I presume, disclosed your name to the people at Marlowe as frankly as to those at Slowton?"