“A man to see you, sir.”
“His name?”
“’Tis Richard Breeds, sir, of the ‘Dog and Duck.’”
“Breeds?”
“The landlord, sir.”
“What does he want?”
For answer, Dennis wriggled his shoulders, with a scared look.
“You don’t know, of course. Tell him to wait me in the hall.”
A few minutes later Mr. Tuke descended the stairs, and, happening to be in slippered feet, walked without sound in search of his visitor, whom, curiously, he came upon comprehensively examining the fastenings of the oaken shutters, his bullet-head bent low. At a cough the man started erect, and, gasping with embarrassment, ducked an awkward bow to the master of the house.
“They are of good, tough wrought-iron,” said the latter grimly.