fools! Where's your horse? I'll ride back, and break every bone in the
coachman's skin! Where's your horse?"

"If you please, Sir, it isn't Ratcatcher. Ratcatcher's all right."

"Ratcatcher's all right? Then what the devil is it?"

"It's a message, Sir."

"About what?"

"About my lord."

"Oh! About my father?" He took out his handkerchief, and passed it over
his forehead, with a deep gasp of relief. "I thought it was Ratcatcher,"
he said, looking at Arnold, with a smile. He put his pipe into his
mouth, and rekindled the dying ashes of the tobacco. "Well?" he went on,
when the pipe was in working order, and his voice was composed again:
"What's up with my father?"

"A telegram from London, Sir. Bad news of my lord."

The man produced his master's card.

Geoffrey read on it (written in his brother's handwriting) these words:

"I have only a moment to scribble a line on my card. Our father is
dangerously ill--his lawyer has been sent for. Come with me to London by
the first train. Meet at the junction."