The dog retreated with a yell, and she walked up to the door and knocked.
The servant, in his gamekeeper suit, opened it.
“Is Mr. Faradeane at home?” she asked.
The man held a small lamp above his head, and surveyed her, then looked beyond her at the gate with not unreasonable surprise.
“No, he isn’t,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I want to see him,” she returned, firmly.
“My master is not at home,” he said. “What name shall I say, ma’am?”
She thought a moment, her dark eyes flashing past him into the small hall.
“It’s of no consequence, my name; if he’s at home”—and she raised her voice—“he’d see me, I know.”
“But he is not at home,” said the man, in a matter-of-fact voice.