"Am I to understand, sir," inquired the attorney, "that what has just occurred modifies our instructions to proceed in those cases?"
"Not at all, sir," answered Varbarriere, firmly.
"You see the civil proceedings must all be in the name of the young gentleman--a party who is of age--and you see what I mean."
"I undertake personally the entire responsibility; you are to proceed in the name of Guy Deverell, and what is more, use the utmost despatch, and spare no cost. When shall we open the battle?"
"By my faith, his hands will be pretty full by that time," said Varbarriere, exultingly. "We must have the papers out again. I can give you all this day, up to half-past five o'clock. We must get the new case into shape for counsel. You run up to town this evening. I suspect I shall follow you to-morrow; but I must run over first to Marlowe. I have left my things there, and my servant; and I suppose I must take a civil leave of my enemy--there are courtesies, you know--as your prize-fighters shake hands in the ring."
The sun was pretty far down in the west by the time their sederunt ended. M. Varbarriere got into his short mantle and mufflers, and donned his ugly felt hat, talking all the while in his deep metallic tones, with his sliding cadences and resounding emphases. The polite and melancholy attorney accompanied his nutritious client to the door, and after he had taken his seat in his vehicle, they chatted a little earnestly through the window, agreeing that they had grown very "strong" indeed--anticipating nothing but victory, and in confidential whispers breathing slaughter.
As Varbarriere, with his thick arm stuffed through one of the upholstered leathern loops with which it is the custom to flank the windows of all sorts of carriages, and his large varnished boot on the vacant cushion at the other side, leaned back and stared darkly and dreamily through the plate glass on the amber-tinted landscape, he felt rather oddly approaching such persons and such scenes--a crisis with a remoter and more tremendous crisis behind--the thing long predicted in the whisperings of hope--the real thing long dreamed of, and now greeted strangely with a mixture of exultation and disgust.