The pattering of the rain against the windows made itself heard in every pause of the conversation, and the noise of the pelting drops grew louder every moment. Cecil was still bending quietly over her work in a cosy corner near the angle of the wide velvet-covered mantelpiece, and the judge's guests had gathered in a circle about the cheery fire, when the bell of the great hall-door rang loudly. "Who the deuce can that be, at this time of night, and at this time of such a night?" cried Mr. Mountjoy. "Whoever he is, he is the owner of a tolerably strong arm, and he knows how to make his arrival public," said one of the listless visitors. The drawing-room opened out of the hall; and in the silence that followed the clamour of the bell, Mr. Mountjoy and his visitors heard the opening of the ponderous door, the rapid accents of a sonorous bass voice asking questions, and a fluttering sound which resembled the noise made by an enormous Newfoundland-dog who shakes himself dry after emerging from the water. There was a pause of some ten minutes, and then the drawing-room door was thrown open, and the servant announced: "Mr. O'Boyneville." "I thought as much," said the dowager in an undertone, which was intended only for the ear of her niece. The barrister made his appearance, a little damp and weather-stained, in spite of the hurried toilet he had made since entering the house, but with the freshness of the open air upon him, and the aspect of a man whose heart is aglow with triumph. He received the cordial welcome of his host, shook hands with the people he knew, offered a big cold paw to Cecil as coolly as if there had been nothing out of the common in their last parting, showed his white teeth, laughed at nothing particular till every crystal drop in the old-fashioned chandelier shivered and trembled, and, in short, made more noise in five minutes than the rest of the party had made in the whole of the evening.