“Who? Lawrence and Philippa?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I fear they will not come, then,” said I.
“They? Why do you associate Lawrence’s name with Philippa’s?”
I was spared the answer. At that instant I heard the well-known call of my colleague without, and simultaneously with this encouraging sound, the click of the night-key in the door proclaiming the return of Mr. Sutton.
“No,” cried I, “here they are; and as I am sure they will have something to say to you which it would embarrass them to utter before a stranger, I will just step out of sight for the moment.” And making a dash for the portière behind me, I pulled it aside and stepped into the darkness beyond.
Mr. Winchester made no effort to stop me; he was too much astonished at the sight of his step-son entering with Philippa on his arm. And I, who, without calculation, had stumbled into the first refuge I espied, was equally surprised, not at what I saw, but at the quarters in which I found myself; for the portière, instead of shutting off a room, shielded a closet, and it was amongst a litter of bric-à-brac and old pictures that I now drew myself up, prepared to listen and to see, since this was all that was left to my indiscretion.
“Father,”—it was Mr. Sutton who spoke,—“will you call mother down? There is something I wish to say to her before I take another step in this house.”