“I am with Mr. Cooke there,” the Under-Sheriff struck in. He was responsible for the Judge’s safety, and he spoke strongly. “Sir Charles should be got away,” he continued. “That’s the first thing to be done. He cannot hold the Assizes, and I say frankly that I will not be responsible if he stays.”
“Jonah!” someone muttered with a sneering laugh.
The Mayor turned about. “That’s very improper!” he said.
“It’s very improper to send a Judge who is a politician!” the voice answered.
“And against the Bill!” a second jeered.
“For shame! For shame!” the Mayor cried.
“And I fancy, sir,” the Under-Sheriff struck in with heat, “that the gentlemen who have just spoken—I think I can guess their names—will be sorry before morning! They will find that it is easier to kindle a fire than to put it out! But—silence, gentlemen! Silence! Here is Sir Charles!”
Wetherell had that moment opened the door of his private room, of which the window looked to the back. His face betrayed his surprise on finding twenty or thirty persons huddled in disorder at the head of the stairs. The two lights which had survived the flight from the drawing-room flared in the draught of the shattered windows, and the wavering illumination gave a sinister cast to the scene. The dull rattle of stones on the floor of the rooms exposed to the Square—varied at times by a roar of voices or a rush of feet in the hall below—suggested that the danger was near at hand, and that the assailants might at any moment break into the building.
Nevertheless Sir Charles showed no signs of fear. After letting his eyes travel over the group, “How long is this going on, Mr. Under-Sheriff?” he asked, plunging his hands deep in his breeches pockets.
“Well, Sir Charles——”