“And don't you mean to turn her out of the house?” “Turn whom out?” “Lady Trafford, of course.” “It's not so easily done, I suspect. I'll take to the long-boat myself one of these days, and leave her in command of the ship.” “I tell you she's a dangerous, a very dangerous woman; she has been ransacking her son's desk, and has come upon all sorts of ugly memoranda,--sums lost at play, and reminders to meet bills, and such-like.” “Yes; he was very unlucky of late,” said Sewell, coldly. “And there was something like a will, too; at least there was a packet of trinkets tied up in a paper, which purported to be a will, but only bore the name Lucy.” “How delicate! there's something touching in that, Balfour; isn't there?” said Sewell, with a grin. “How wonderfully you seem to have got up the case! You know the whole story. How did you manage it?” “My fellow Paxley had it from Lady Trafford's maid. She told him that her mistress was determined to show all her son's papers to the Chief Baron, and blow you sky high.” “That's awkward, certainly,” said Sewell, in deep thought. “It would be a devil of a conflagration if two such combustibles came together. I 'd rather she 'd fight it out with my mother.” “Have you sent in your papers to the Horse Guards?” “Yes; it's all finished. I am gazetted out, or I shall be on Tuesday.” “I'm sorry for it. Not that it signifies much as to this registrarship. We never intended to relinquish our right to it, we mean to throw the case into Chancery, and we have one issue already to submit to trial at bar.” “Who are _we_ that are going to do all this?” “The Crown,” said Balfour, haughtily. “_Ego et rex meus_; that's the style, is it? Come now, Balfy, if you 're for a bet, I 'll back my horse, the Chief Baron, against the field. Give me sporting odds, for he 's aged, and must run in bandages besides.” “That woman's coming here at this moment was most unlucky.” “Of course it was; it would n't be _my_ lot if it were anything else. I say,” cried he, starting up, and approaching the window, “what's up now?” “She's going at last, I really believe.” The sound of many and heavy footsteps was now heard descending the stairs slowly, and immediately after two men issued from the door, carrying young Trafford on a chair; his arms hung listlessly at his side, and his head was supported by his servant. “I wonder whose doing is this? Has the doctor given his concurrence to it? How are they to get him into the coach, and what are they to do with him when he is there?” Such was the running commentary Balfour kept up all the time they were engaged in depositing the sick man in the carriage. Again a long pause of inaction ensued, and at last a tap came to the door of the room, and a servant inquired for Mr. Balfour. “There!” cried Sewell, “it's _your_ turn now. I only hope she 'll insist on your accompanying her to town.”