“Here don’t you make no—Here, Miss Pellet, my dear, you’re wanted.”
“Wanted!” said Patty, instinctively shrinking back, while Janet’s dark fierce eyes gazed from one to the other.
“Yes; wanted—in the shop,” said D. Wragg. “You don’t mind coming, do you? Don’t stop her, Janet; it may mean money, you know.”
“But who—who wants me?” faltered Patty, one of whose hands tightly pressed the long restraining bony fingers of Janet—“who wants me?”
“It’s one o’ them swells as come about the dorg!”
Volume One—Chapter Twenty Eight.
The Alarm Quelled.
By nine o’clock in the morning of the day succeeding that of his dinner-party at Norwood, Mr Richard Pellet, eager and anxious, was in Borton Street. He would have been there hours before, but Mrs Richard Pellet had been suffering from over-excitement, which was her way of describing a sharp fit of indigestion, brought on by over-indulgence in the good things of the table. So Mrs Richard Pellet had been faint and hysterical, and violently sick and prostrated. She had consumed nearly a half-bottle of the best Cognac; the servants had been, like their master, up nearly all night; and the consequence was, that about five o’clock, Mr Richard Pellet had lain down for an hour, which in spite of his anxiety extended itself to three. He awoke under the impression that he had been asleep five minutes, when he smoothed himself, hurried to the train, took a cab, and arrived at Borton Street two hours later than he had intended.