"Sit down, sir, this instant," said the old man, with terrible sternness.
"Sit down, I say, or you will never be a partner of mine. Justice must
take its course. What business and what right have we to protect a felon?
I would not take your part if you were one. Indeed it is too late now,
for the detectives will be with him before you could reach him. I gave
Adams his address."

At this last piece of information Wardlaw junior leaned his head on the
table and groaned aloud, and a cold perspiration gathered in beads upon
his white forehead.

CHAPTER II.

THAT same evening sat over their tea, in Norfolk Street, Strand, another
couple, who were also father and son; but, in this pair, the Wardlaws
were reversed. Michael Penfold was a reverend, gentle creature, with
white hair, blue eyes and great timidity; why, if a stranger put to him a
question he used to look all round the room before he ventured to answer.

Robert, his son, was a young man with a large brown eye, a mellow voice,
square shoulders and a prompt and vigorous manner. Cricketer. Scholar.
Parson.

They were talking hopefully together over a living Robert was going to
buy. It was near Oxford, he said, and would not prevent his continuing to
take pupils. "But, father," said he, "it will be a place to take my wife
to if I ever have one; and, meantime, I hope you will run down now and
then, Saturday to Monday."