A formidable pile of MS. was passed up by the Clerk, whose deprecating glances were not lost upon the Chairman. But Mr. Max Fortnaby cut open the budget in the midst, and peered in.
“janua vel domina penitus crudelior ipsa”—he read. It was a footnote. He lifted his eyebrows—then his eyes upon the accused.
“Propertius? You know Latin?”
“I know some, sir.”
He returned to the MS., then again to Glyde.
“You are a bit of a poet, I see.”
“Yes, sir. I hope so.”
“If it leads you to battery, my young friend—” was his private comment. To Mr. Bazalguet he whispered, “The fellow's got scholarship. We might give these back, I think.” Mr. Bazalguet was only too happy, and Glyde saw his offspring returned. Sergeant Weeks, safe in Mr. Fortnaby's good opinion, scrupulously wrapped and tied them. Mr. Fortnaby said, “Let them go back to his landlady,” and caught the prisoner's eye.
It was now time to ask him whether he had anything to say. Glyde, perfectly master of himself, said that he pleaded Guilty, but would like to put a few questions. The Chairman, biting the tips of his fingers, nodded; and Mr. Fortnaby watched him.
Facing Ingram, who looked always to the Chairman, Glyde asked—“Did you dismiss your servant, as you put it, before I met you, or afterwards?” All eyes flew from Glyde to Ingram.