The butler, however, would not be denied, but disappearing for a minute or two returned with a cobwebbed flask, which he uncorked, and then filling a big glass to the brim, handed it to the young gentleman with these words:
"This madeira was bottled some five-and-twenty years ago in the time of the former owner of this mansion, Sir Oswald Rawcliffe. I pray you taste it, Sir—— I beg pardon," he added, hastily correcting himself—"I mean Captain Legh."
As Atherton placed the goblet to his lips, but did not half empty it, the butler whispered in his ear, while handing him a biscuit, "'Tis your father's wine."
Atherton gave him a look and emptied the glass.
Another bumper was then filled for Sergeant Dickson, who smacked his lips, but declared that for his part he preferred usquebaugh.
"Usquebaugh!" exclaimed Markland, contemptuously. "Good wine is thrown away upon you, I perceive, sergeant. Nothing better was ever drunk than this madeira. Let me prevail upon you to try it again, Sir—Captain, I mean."
But as Atherton declined, he set down the bottle beside him, and left the room.
Full half an hour elapsed before he reappeared, and then his looks so alarmed those who beheld him, that they both started to their feet.
"What is the matter?" cried Atherton, struck by a foreboding of ill. "Nothing, I trust, has happened to Sir Richard?"
"I don't know—I hope not," cried the terrified butler. "I went into the library just now to see if his honour wanted anything. To my surprise he was not there, though I had been in the entrance-hall, and hadn't seem him go out. On the writing-table was a packet, that somehow attracted my attention, and I stepped forward to look at it. It was sealed with black wax, and addressed to Sir Conway Rawcliffe, Baronet."