BETWEEN BEDE AND HIS CLERK.
They stood near each other, Bede Greatorex and his managing clerk, while Mr. Butterby paced the passage outside.
When interrupted, Bede had his elbow on the mantelpiece, his brow bent on his thin fingers. A good blazing fire here, the coal crackling and sparkling cheerily. Bede dropped his elbow.
"What is it, Mr. Brown?" he rather languidly asked.
Mr. Brown, closing the door, went straight up and said what it was: Alletha Rye had been apprehended. But he looked anywhere, as he spoke, rather than into the face of his master. A face that grew suddenly white and cold: and Mr. Brown, in his delicacy of mind, would not appear to see it.
"What a cursed meddler that Butterby is!" exclaimed Bede.
"I fancy he had no option in this, sir; that it was not left to his choice."
"Who did it, then?"
"Mr. Greatorex. This must be remedied at once, sir."
By the authoritative manner in which he spoke, it might have been thought that Bede Greatorex was the servant, Brown the master. Bede put his elbow on the shelf again, and pushed back his hair in unmistakable agitation. It was growing thin now, the once luxuriant crop; and silver threads were interwoven with the black ones.