A step upon the gravelled walk warned the lovers to retreat, and ere long Mr. Spriggins was wending his steps up Sydney street, muttering imprecations upon the unknown person who had so unceremoniously broken up their rendezvous.
Meanwhile Phillip Lawson was enjoying the quiet of his cosy back parlor. He was seated in his huge arm-chair enjoying the Evening Globe and a choice cigar.
Lottie Lawson had once remarked that brother Phillip might go without his tea, but he could not sleep without seeing the Globe. And the little maid was right, for nothing is more inviting for the hurried man of business, the politician, the professional or the student than the perusal of the evening paper. Look into the counting-rooms, the offices, the libraries—aye, even the brilliantly-illuminated parlors—and you will in each find your answer.
But we must turn to our legal friend. As Mr. Spriggins surmised, it was court week, and a very busy one for Mr. Lawson. Brighter prospects were now in store. Prosperity had dawned upon the untiring student, and he looked forward with encouraging hopes.
"Thank God I am here yet," was the young man's exclamation, as he threw aside the paper and began to ruminate upon his prospects in general.
Strange to say he did not harbor ill-will to Hubert Tracy. He pitied him with a tender pity, and mourned for the wreck of a life that had such a good beginning. But Mr. Lawson had a feeling of enmity towards his contemporaries in the far west. He could ill repress the angry feelings that arose when the scheme presented itself in all its horrid reality.
"What ground for bringing the gang to the scratch and making a startling expose of our legal brethren; yes, nice brethren too."
No wonder that Mr. Lawson felt ashamed of his fraternity. If the shades of Coke and Blackstone could only arise—what a reckoning would be made. What a scene—aye, one that would need a Milton to describe.
Thoughts akin to these were passing through the young lawyer's mind when he suddenly recalled the cause. The heavy brows are contracted and a scowl appears. "The wicked flourish for a season and so may you, my happy friends, but your happiness is not of the enduring kind." Another scowl. "But if he succeeds I am miserable," muttered Phillip Lawson, his countenance betraying deep agitation. "But I will not suffer her to become a sacrifice. Heaven forbid."
There was determination in the tone and in the gesture which accompanied it.