"Name, Miss, please?" said the weedy youth.
"Nellie Mary Million——"
"Miss Million," I amended. "We have an appointment with Mr. Chesterton."
"Mr. Chesterton hasn't come yet," said the weedy youth. "Kindly take a seat in here."
He went into the inner office. I sat down. Million, far too nervous to sit down, wandered about the waiting-room.
"My, it doesn't half want cleaning in here," she remarked in a flurried whisper, looking about her. "Why, the boy hasn't even taken down yesterday's teacups. I wonder how often they get a woman in. Look at those cobwebs! A shaving-mirror—well, I never!" She breathed on it, polishing it with her black moirette reticule. "Some notice here about 'Courts,' Miss Beatrice. Don't it make you feel as if you was in the dock? I wonder what they keep in this little corner-cupboard."
"The handcuffs, I expect. No, no, Million, you mustn't look at them." Here the weedy youth put in his head again.