The company arose to go amid an awkward silence, which was broken by occasional and spasmodic efforts at commonplace consolation.
The having to go away gave a heartless effect to the behaviour of the company; it seemed so like deserting a friend in the hour of need; but there was no help for it, and one by one, almost silently, the visitors took their departure.
“It's a dreadful thing,” said Johnny, when he and his wife and son were left alone. “Disease of the heart: sudden, quite sudden; dropped down in his chair, and me sent to, to give up his papers; I must be off to the office.”
“Oh, Johnny, Johnny! What are we to do? Poor Mr. Pintle! Such a fine old gentleman, and ten years more life you could have declared to; the picture of health he always was. Poor Mr. Pintle!”
And Johnny Pounce wrapped himself in a great-coat and shawl, and hurried through the driving snow across Lincoln's Inn Fields to Carey Street.
The visitors (for they were two) who had so unceremoniously disturbed Johnny's party were waiting for him in a hansom at the office door. One of them was an errand-boy, whose faculties seemed to be quite dispersed by the frightful occurrence which had just taken place, and which, in fact, he had almost witnessed. The other was a tall, dark, gentlemanly man, with a heavy black moustache and military bearing. He was John Redfern, the late Mr. Pintle's nephew and heir-at-law, and he held a captain's commission in a cavalry regiment. The mission upon which he had come was to fetch the will which was known to be in the office,
