“I must beg pardon, Lady Maxwell,” he went on, “but my duty leaves me no choice.” He turned to the young man, who, on seeing the officers had laid the knife down again, and now stood, with one hand on the table, rather pale, but apparently completely self-controlled, looking a little disdainfully at the magistrate.
Then Sir Nicholas made a great effort; but his face twitched as he spoke, and the hand that he lifted to his wife’s arm shook with nervousness, and his voice was cracked and unnatural.
“Sit down, my dear, sit down.—What is all this?—I do not understand.—Mr. Frankland, sir, what do you want of me?—And who are all these gentlemen?—Won’t you sit down, Mr. Frankland and take a glass of wine. Let me make Mr. Stewart known to you.” And he lifted a shaking hand as if to introduce them.
The magistrate smiled a little on one side of his mouth.
“It is no use, Sir Nicholas,” he said, “this gentleman, I fear, is well known to some of us already.—No, no, sir,” he cried sharply, “the window is guarded.”
Mr. Stewart, who had looked swiftly and sideways across at the window, faced the magistrate again.
“I do not know what you mean, sir,” he said. “It was a lad who passed the window.”
There was a movement outside in the hall; and the magistrate stepped to the door.
“Who is there?” he cried out sharply.
There was a scuffle, and a cry of a boy’s voice; and a man appeared, holding Anthony by the arm.