He was out when she returned. As she was sallying forth on an errand for Mrs. Browne she perceived Jessie in deep confabulation with a smooth-voiced stranger in the hall, who was apparently making himself agreeable to the slavey. At a glance she recognized him to be the stranger with the face like a red plum-pudding, who had handed that summons to Mr. Standish.
In a flash she recollected the key was in the door of the journalist's room. The next moment her bounding young feet had carried her up the stairs, and she had locked the door, and dropped the key into her apron pocket, before the representative of justice came panting up on the scene. Meg's experience of life had included strange branches of education. She had watched the maneuvers of debtors to keep bailiffs at bay, and the strategy of the men in authority to get into possession.
"What do you want?" she inquired, standing before the threshold she was defending.
"I want Mr. Standish—a writing gent. I've got news for him," replied the stranger with an air of business.
"Can't see him," said Meg briefly. "He's out, and the door's locked."
"Now, that's awful unfortunate," replied the visitor, with an air of perplexed consternation. "Those writing gents make their living by getting news, and my news is so important that he ought to know it."
"What news is it? I'll tell him when he comes in," said Meg curtly.
"Can't do that, missy. Now, I take it," continued the stranger insinuatingly, "you know where the key of that room is. If you let me in, I'll give you the prettiest, shiniest sixpence you ever saw. Come, now, let me in, and I'll write my news down for the gent. My time's precious-like, you see."
"Who are you? Where do you come from?" asked Meg.