“Where’s Mr. Wotherall?” Casson cried. “What’s become of him?”
The boy’s countenance instantly underwent a change. “Mr. Wotherall!” he stammered. “What do you know of Mr. Wotherall?”
“Know of him?” Casson retorted angrily. “That’s my business. He was here a few seconds ago, and now I can see no trace of him. Where is he, I say?”
By this time Mrs. Griffiths had deposited the beans on the kitchen table and joined the two at the door. “Take no notice of the gentleman,” she said to Ephraim, “it’s overwork. Been a-studying too hard. I’ve told him he must throw aside his books and letter-writing while he is here, and rest.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Casson said “that neither of you saw a man in a blazer pass here just now?”
“Naw!” Ephraim drawled. “I ain’t seen no one. There’s no man in a blazer or in any other kind of thing anywhere about here. There’s no man at all except yourself.”
“That’s right!” Mrs. Griffiths chipped in. “I told the gentleman so, only he won’t believe me.”
“I must have been dreaming, then,” Casson replied reluctantly; “but, at all events, I am awake now, and should like my dinner, Mrs. Griffiths, as soon as you can get it.”
That ended the incident. Casson retreated to his parlour, and the other two, after mumbling for awhile in the hall, retired together to the kitchen. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and, once again, Casson found himself, candle in hand, wending his way upstairs to bed.