The old man started when he saw the visitor, rose and held out his hand with mechanical, old-fashioned courtesy; but it was doubtful whether he recognized him.
Miss Bostal went softly round his chair with her quick, bird-like little steps, and put her hand gently on his shoulder.
“Dear papa,” she said in a whisper, “don’t you remember Mr. King? He was here in the summer. You do remember, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, certainly I do; of course I do, Theodora,” responded the Colonel, with a slight frown at the implication that he was losing his memory. “Sit down, Mr. King, and tell us what the great world is doing.”
Then Clifford saw that in a moment the old man had become quite himself, and it was the weight of some care which had given him his changed appearance. The young man was sorry when Miss Theodora at once recalled her father to the anxiety which was pressing upon both of them.
“I want you to tell Mr. King, papa,” she said, as Clifford took the chair offered him, “about the terrible persecution we have been subjected to lately since the Blue Lion has been shut up.”
“It’s not a very lively subject,” objected her father, whose face fell at his daughter’s words. “However, I will tell you, if the story is worth telling.”
Clifford, although he was indeed curious to hear the narrative, protested that he did not wish to do so, as he saw that his host was by no means anxious to relate it. But Miss Theodora insisted.
“Well, then,” said the old gentleman, “it is simply this: At least half a dozen times since the Blue Lion has been deserted we have been annoyed by knocks and blows on our doors and windows at night. And although we have done our best to find out who it is that annoys us in this manner, we have been unable to do so.”
“And have you no idea, no suspicion?”