"
She was not alone. Master Freake was now wringing my shackled hands
delightedly, and a little, deft man, whom I knew on sight to be Dot
Gibson, was searching his unresisting lordship's pockets for the key of
the irons. A minute later he banged them on the floor and said, "And how
do you find yourself, sir?"
There's no more to be said about Brocton. He was as good as dead for the
remainder of the business, and no one heeded him any more than if he had
been a loathsome insect that a man's foot had trodden on. And what killed
him was the presence of a third man, a perfect stranger to me. He was an
old-looking rather than an old man, with rheumy eyes that looked through
narrow slits, and a big unshapely nose; the skin of his face was brown and
crinkled like a dried-up bladder; his whole appearance as a man was mean
and paltry. What distinction he had was given him by gorgeous clothing and
the attendance of a pompous ass in a flaming livery. Yet Brocton dared not
look at him again, as he shuffled forward on his man's arm to speak to
Master Freake.
"Mr. Freake," he piped, laying an imploring hand on the merchant's arm,
"you will not be too hard on my foolish son?"
It was the old rascal Earl of Ridgeley.
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