"Justine!" He moved a step or two to where she lay. "Justine—"
His voice was very low and penitent, but at the sound of it she seemed to shrink. "Could she know?" he wondered.
Then immediately, through the scantness of the apartment, he heard the outer bell resound. Enervated as he was, the interruption affected him like a barb. There was some one there whom he could vent his irritation on. He hurried to the hall, but a servant had preceded him. The door was open, and on the threshold Thorold stood.
Mistrial nodded—the nod of one who is about to throw his coat aside and roll his shirt-sleeves up. "Is it for your bill you come?" he asked.
Thorold hesitated, and his face grew very black. He affected, however, to ignore the taunt. He turned to the servant that still was waiting there. "Is my cousin at home?" he asked.
"She is," Mistrial announced, "but not to you."
"In that case," Thorold answered, "I must speak to someone in her stead."
Mistrial made a gesture, and the servant withdrew.
"I have to inform my cousin," Thorold continued, "that Mr. Metuchen came to me this evening and said that when my uncle died he was in debt—"
"Stuff and nonsense!"