The man rode off, leading his master's horse. Mr. Cass waited until they were out of sight, then knocked vigorously at the door. There was no response.
A third knock, or, rather, a perfect battery of knocks, proved that Job was at home. From within came the growl of a waking beast--a beast angry at being disturbed; and shortly afterwards the door was wrenched open by no very gentle hand. The gypsy, with his red-rimmed eyes blinking from under a thatch of disordered hair, stood on the threshold. Mr. Cass took in his condition at a glance.
"Are you not ashamed to be drunk at this time of day?" he asked. "What do you mean by it?"
"It is none of your business," growled Job, who had slept off the worst effects of his debauch.
"It is my business. I am Mr. Cass."
"I know you are," retorted the man, still blocking the doorway. "But that doesn't give you the right to come knocking at my door. 'Tisn't your house."
"It is Mr. Heron's house." Mr. Cass said, sharply; "and I have sufficient influence with Mr. Heron to have you kicked out into the cold if you do not behave yourself."
"I shouldn't do that if I were you," said the ruffian, with a sinister smile. "Others may find themselves out in the cold too. Aye, my gorgeous Gentile--bigger folk nor the poor Romany."
This was plainly a threat levelled at Mrs. Marshall, as her brother clearly saw. However, it was not his intention to quarrel with the man until he had got the truth out of him. "You speak in riddles," he said, "but perhaps you will stand aside and let me enter."
"What for?" asked Job, suspiciously.