"I'll be there," Granthope replied. "I'll wait till you come. The outside door is locked at eleven o'clock. Be there before that."
He took his hat and walked to the door, giving a look at Mrs. Riley as he passed. Her face was now almost animated, as her lips mumbled something to herself. Granthope ran briskly down-stairs, and Masterson closed the door.
"Who's that?" Mrs. Riley piped querulously.
"That? Why, Granthope, the palmist," said the doctor, busying himself with some bottles on his table. He took one up and shook it.
"Granthope? No, sir! Don't tell me! I know better."
Masterson was upon her in a flash. "What d'you mean?" he demanded, taking her by the arm.
"I know, I know! You can't fool Margaret Riley!" she croaked.
He shook her roughly. "You're drunk!" he exclaimed in disgust.
"No, I ain't!" she retorted. "I'm sober enough to know that fellow; I've seen him before, I tell you."
"Who is he, then?"