“A curious idea,” said M. de Chandore, knocking with the butt-end of his whip.
He was knocking fiercer and fiercer, when at last Anthony’s voice was heard from within,—
“Who is there?”
“It is I, Baron Chandore.”
The bars were removed instantly, and the old valet showed himself in the door. He looked pale and undone. The disordered condition of his beard, his hair, and his dress, showed that he had not been to bed. And this disorder was full of meaning in a man who ordinarily prided himself upon appearing always in the dress of an English gentleman.
M. de Chandore was so struck by this, that he asked, first of all,—
“What is the matter with you, my good Anthony?”
Instead of replying, Anthony drew the baron and his companion inside; and, when he had fastened the door again, he crossed his arms, and said,—
“The matter is—well, I am afraid.”
The old gentleman and the lawyer looked at each other. They evidently both thought the poor man had lost his mind. Anthony saw it, and said quickly,—