“Is this the room?” murmured the little gentleman.
Sam nodded assent.
Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the room just as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the licence to the spinster aunt.
The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and, throwing herself in a chair, covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence, and thrust it into his coat-pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the middle of the room.
“You—you are a nice rascal, aren’t you?” exclaimed Wardle, breathless with passion.
“My dear sir, my dear sir,” said the little man, laying his hat on the table. “Pray, consider—pray. Defamation of character: action for damages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray——”
“How dare you drag my sister from my house?” said the old man.
“Ay—ay—very good,” said the little gentleman, “you may ask that. How dare you, sir?—eh, sir?”
“Who the devil are you?” inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.
“Who is he, you scoundrel?” interposed Wardle. “He’s my lawyer, Mr. Perker, of Gray’s Inn. Perker, I’ll have this fellow prosecuted—indicted—I’ll—I’ll—I’ll ruin him. And you,” continued Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister, “you, Rachael, at a time of life when you ought to know better, what do you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family, and making yourself miserable? Get on your bonnet, and come back. Call a hackney-coach there, directly, and bring this lady’s bill, d’ye hear—d’ye hear?”