As she sat sipping it in her luxurious tea-jacket, and with her feet on the fender-stool, Mr. Wynne returned home, tired, hoarse, and cold. His fire was out. And, moreover, there was no sign of his modest evening meal.
“Confound that old hag downstairs!” he muttered.
“Please, sir,” said one of the clerks who had been busy locking up, and who now followed him into his sanctum, “there was a party to see you while you were out—a party as waited for a good bit of an hour.”
“Well, well, couldn’t you have dealt with him?” impatiently. “What did he want?”
“It was a lady,” impressively.
“A lady!” he echoed. “Oh yes, I know, old Mrs. Redhead—about that appeal——”
“No, it was not; it was a young lady.”
“Oh, a young lady?” he repeated.
“Yes, and she bid me be sure to tell you,” embroidering a little to give colour to his story, “as she was very sorry not to see you, and to say that Miss West had called.”
“Miss West? Are you sure she said West?”