‘I have to ask pardon for this intrusion, Mr. Naseby,’ he said; ‘but I come here to perform a duty. My card has been sent in, but perhaps you may not know, what it does not tell you, that I am the editor of the Thymebury Star.’
Mr. Naseby looked up, indignant.
‘I cannot fancy,’ he said, ‘that we have much in common to discuss.’
‘I have only a word to say—one piece of information to communicate. Some months ago, we had—you will pardon my referring to it, it is absolutely necessary—but we had an unfortunate difference as to facts.’
‘Have you come to apologise?’ asked the Squire, sternly.
‘No, sir; to mention a circumstance. On the morning in question, your son, Mr. Richard Naseby—’
‘I do not permit his name to be mentioned.’
‘You will, however, permit me,’ replied the Editor.
‘You are cruel,’ said the Squire. He was right, he was a broken man.
Then the Editor described Dick’s warning visit; and how he had seen in the lad’s eye that there was a thrashing in the wind, and had escaped through pity only—so the Editor put it—‘through pity only sir. And oh, sir,’ he went on, ‘if you had seen him speaking up for you, I am sure you would have been proud of your son. I know I admired the lad myself, and indeed that’s what brings me here.’