"Who can it be?" asked Rachel anxiously. "We know no one in Gosport, and it is night."
"Which is no excuse for our not opening the door," said Aaron Cohen, sweeping the money off the table into a small chamois leather bag, which he tied carefully at the neck, and put into his pocket. "True we believe we are not known here, but there may nevertheless be an old acquaintance in Gosport who has heard of our arrival, and comes to welcome us; or Judah Belasco may have told a friend of his we are here; or it may be an enterprising baker or grocer who wishes to secure our custom. No," he added as the knock was repeated, "that is not a tradesman. Let us see who it is that expresses himself so impatiently."
Aaron went to the street door, and Rachel followed him into the passage, carrying a candle. The night was dark, and Rachel stood a little in the rear, so that Aaron could not distinguish the features of his visitor. He was a big man, and that was all that was apparent to the Cohens.
"Mr. Cohen?" queried the visitor.
"Yes," said Aaron.
"Mr. Aaron Cohen?"
"That is my name."
"Can I speak with you?"
"Certainly." And Aaron waited to hear what the stranger had to say.
"I am not accustomed to be kept waiting on the doorstep. I should prefer to speak to you in the house."