“Mr. Ashbel Norton need have no fears about his family name,” muttered the Judge; “but how about all the Montagues? Their name’s going to the penitentiary by a large majority.”
There seemed no help for it, and it was not any fault of Judge Danvers, either.
That evening he had another long talk with Dr. Manning, which was ended with:
“Of course, he’ll come right here. Send him down to my office with as little delay as possible. I must have a talk with him before anybody else knows that I’ve found him.”
Perhaps, after all, there was small need of so many precautions, but the old lawyer could hardly have done his work in any other way if he had tried.
As for Bar Vernon, it had seemed to him that morning as if there never could have been so slow a stage-coach anywhere else in all the world, and he caught himself glancing enviously at the telegraph wires. He had secured a perch beside the driver on the box, and at last he asked him:
“What’s the matter with your horses to-day? They seem to go like snails.”
“Snails, is it?” angrily exclaimed the driver. “S’pose you ask ’em? I reckon I know how fast hosses ort to be druv.”
“Hullo, you off nag,” suddenly inquired Bar, as the driver had suggested, “is that the best you can do?”
“Best I can do,” returned the off horse, with a toss of his head.