"Present that to Mr. Sidney, and say that the bearer is desirous of an interview."
Ann Packet took the card in her great red hand, turned it over, looked from it to the owner, gave vent to an idiotic "Lor!" and then trudged up-stairs with the card. Mattie and the old gentleman, meanwhile, continued to regard each other—the suspicions of the former not perfectly allayed yet.
Ann Packet returned, appearing by the staircase door this time.
"Mr. Sidney Hinchford will see you, sir—if your business is of importance, he says."
The gentleman addressed compressed his lips—very thin lips they became on the instant—but deigned no reply. He rose from his chair, and followed Ann through the door, up-stairs towards Mr. Hinchford's room, leaving his hat on the counter, where he had very politely placed it upon entering the shop.
Mattie put it behind her, and then scowled down a lack-a-daisical footman, who was simpering at her between a Family Herald and a portrait of T. P. Cooke.
The stranger followed Ann Packet up-stairs, and entered the room on the first floor, glancing sharply round him through his glasses, and taking a survey of everything which it contained on the instant. There was a fire burning in the grate that autumn night; the gas was lighted; the tea-things ready on the table; at a smaller table by the window, working by the light of a table-lamp adorned with a green shade, and with another green shade tied across his forehead by way of extra protection for the eyes he worked so mercilessly, sat Sidney Hinchford, the only occupant of the room.
Sidney rose, bowed slightly, pointed to a chair with the feather of his pen, then sat down again, and looked at his visitor from under the ugly shade, which cast his face into shadow.
The gentleman bowed also, and took the seat indicated, keeping his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose.
"You are my brother James's son, I presume?"