"Judgment by default! You will get heavy damages, Mr Sinclair. Lord Minden is as rich as Crœsus; and the case is very aggravated. Violation of friendship—a bosom-friend—one whom you had admitted to your confidence and hearth. We must have these points prominently put. I shall retain Mr Thessaly. That man, sir, was born for these aggravated cases."
"You will write to Mr Wilson?" said Sinclair, mournfully.
"This very day. Don't be unhappy, Mr Sinclair—you have a capital case, and will get a handsome verdict."
"When you have heard from Mr Wilson, let me know. I wish to arrange an interview with him, and have not the heart to write myself. Tell him I am in town—that I must see him."
"I will do it. Can I offer you a glass of wine, Mr Sinclair, or any refreshment? You look pale and languid."
"None, I thank you!"
"And the little lady in the parlour?"
"I am obliged to you—nothing. I must go to her—I have kept her waiting. Good-morning, sir."
Sinclair joined his daughter, and proceeded with her to his hotel. She was still his constant companion. He did not move without her. His anxiety to have the child always at his side bordered on insanity. Whether he quitted his home for amusement or business, she must accompany him, and clasp the only hand that he had now to offer her. He dreaded to be alone, and no voice soothed him but that of the little chatterer. How fond he was of it—of her—who shall say! or how necessary to his existence the treasure he had snatched from ruin in the hour of universal wreck!
Before visiting his lawyer, Sinclair had dispatched a private communication to his old serving-man, John Humphreys, who, upon the breaking up of Rupert's establishment, had returned to the service of Lord Railton, his ancient master. That trusty servant was already at the hotel when Sinclair reached it.