Attracted probably by the clatter of the horse--for Chattaway had pulled up suddenly, and with more noise than he need have done, there came one to the shop-door and looked out. It was Mr. Wall, and he stepped forth to shake hands with Chattaway. "Good morning, Chattaway. You are in Barmester betimes. What lovely weather we are having for the conclusion of the harvest!" "Very; it has been a fine harvest altogether," replied Chattaway; and from his composure no one could have dreamt of the terrible care and perplexity running riot in his heart. "I want to say a word to Flood about a lease that is falling in, so I thought I'd start early and make a round of it on my way to Blackstone." "An accident occurred yesterday to your son and Madam Chattaway, did it not?" asked Mr. Wall. "News of it was flying about last night. I hope they are not much hurt." "Not at all. Cris was so stupid as to attempt to drive a horse unbroken for driving--a vicious temper, too. The dog-cart is half smashed. Here, you! come here." The last words were addressed to a boy in a tattered jacket, who was racing after a passing carriage. Mr. Chattaway wanted him to hold his horse; and the boy quickly changed his course, believing the office would be good for sixpence at least. The lawyer's outer door was open. There was a second door in the passage, furnished with a knocker: the office opened on the left. Mr. Chattaway tried the office-door; more as a matter of form than anything else. It was locked, as he expected, and would be until nine o'clock. So he gave an imposing knock at the other. "I shall just catch him after breakfast," soliloquised he, "and can have a quiet quarter-of-an-hour with him, undisturbed by----Is Mr. Flood at home?" He had tried the door as a matter of form, and in like manner put the question, passing in without ceremony: the servant arrested him. "Mr. Flood's out, sir. He is gone to London." "Gone to London!" ejaculated Chattaway. "Yes, sir, not an hour ago. Went by the eight o'clock train." It was so complete a check to all his imaginings, that for a minute the master of Trevlyn Hold found speech desert him. Many a bad man on the first threat of evil flies to a lawyer, in the belief that he can, by the exercise of his craft, bring him out of it. Chattaway, after a night of intolerable restlessness, had come straight off to his lawyer, Flood, with the intention of confiding the whole affair to him, and asking what was to be done in it; never so much as glancing at the possibility of that legal gentleman's absence. "Went up by the eight o'clock train?" he repeated when he found his voice. "Yes, sir." "And when's he coming home?" "He expects to be away about a week, sir."