"Know him?" cried the other. "Seen his picture in the papers time and again. Astrakhan coat and all!"
Happily for the peace of mind of the young couple Mr. Trupp proved right. All the energies of the great contractor were set on driving the new commercial railway from London to the North, tapping the Black Country, and linking the Yorkshire ports with the Metropolis by the most direct route.
It was in fact two years and more before Mr. Caspar made another of his sudden appearances at the door of 60.
Young Mrs. Caspar, one of those women who is always on her guard, guessed her visitor by that peremptory knock. She dried her hands, shut the kitchen-door on the children—there were two now; peeped into the study, saw that Edward was out, and faced the stranger.
Old Mr. Caspar was not really old: a dark, powerful man, almost magnificent, in the familiar coat with the astrakhan collar of the picture papers, and a black-and-silvered beard.
A close observer would have detected a Semitic strain in him and more than a strain of the South. In fact, Hans Caspar's father came from Frankfurt and his mother from Trieste, though he had lived in England from his earliest years and spoke without a trace of accent.
Now his dark eyes met the woman's blue ones, and seemed to approve of what they saw.
"Mr. Edward Caspar in?" he asked.
"He will be in a moment.—Mr. Hans Caspar, isn't it?"
She showed him into the little back sitting-room.