Sewis had the office of tempering a severely distasteful announcement to
the squire.

He resumed: 'The gentleman doesn't talk of staying. That is not his
business. It 's rather late for him to arrive.'

'Rather late!' roared the squire. 'Why, what's it o'clock?'

Reaching a hand to the watch over his head, he caught sight of the
unearthly hour. 'A quarter to two? Gentleman downstairs? Can't be that
infernal apothecary who broke 's engagement to dine with me last night?
By George, if it is I'll souse him; I'll drench him from head to heel as
though the rascal 'd been drawn through the duck-pond. Two o'clock in
the morning? Why, the man's drunk. Tell him I'm a magistrate, and I'll
commit him, deuce take him; give him fourteen days for a sot; another
fourteen for impudence. I've given a month 'fore now. Comes to me, a
Justice of the peace!--man 's mad! Tell him he's in peril of a lunatic
asylum. And doesn't talk of staying? Lift him out o' the house on the
top o' your boot, Sewis, and say it 's mine; you 've my leave.'

Sewis withdrew a step from the bedside. At a safe distance he fronted
his master steadily; almost admonishingly. 'It 's Mr. Richmond, sir,' he
said.

'Mr. . . .' The squire checked his breath. That was a name never
uttered at the Grange. 'The scoundrel?' he inquired harshly, half in a
tone of one assuring himself, and his rigid dropped jaw shut.

The fact had to be denied or affirmed instantly, and Sewis was silent.