"Who is there?" demanded Mr. Arnot, sternly.
"Me and Misther Haldane," answered a voice without in broadest brogue.
"Mr. Haldane!" exclaimed Mr. Arnot excitedly; "what can this mean? Who is me?" he next asked loudly.
"Me is Pat M'Cabe, sure; the same as tidies up the office and does yer irrinds. Mr. Haldane's had a bad turn, and I've brought him home."
As Mr. Arnot swung open the door, a man, who seemingly had been leaning against it, fell prone within the hall. Laura gave a slight scream, and Mrs. Arnot was much alarmed, thinking that Haldane was suffering from some sudden and alarming attack. Thoughts of at once telegraphing to his mother were entering her mind, when the object of her solicitude tried to rise, and mumbled in the thick utterance of intoxication:
"This isn't home. Take me to mother's."
Mrs. Arnot's eyes turned questioningly to her husband, and she saw that his face was dark with anger and disgust.
"He is drunk," he said, turning to Pat, who stood in the door, cap in hand.
"Faix, sur, it looks moighty loike it. But it's not for a dacent sober man loike meself to spake sartainly o' sich matters."
"Few words and to the point, sir," said Mr. Arnot harshly; "your breath tells where you have been. But where did you find this—and how came you to find him?"