“She said I wasn’t to let no one in. There’s so many tramps and beggars about.”
“There!” exclaimed Richard, impatiently, as he threw down a card. “Take that up to her, and I’ll wait here; or, no—give me that card back,” he said, for the thought struck him that it was impossible to say where that card might go.
The girl tried to throw the card back, and succeeded in projecting it, twice over, a couple of feet, to come fluttering down again, when she caught it, and stood shaving and scraping the dirt off her cheek with its edge, evidently finding it more grateful than the sandpaper of the match-box.
“There! never mind,” said Richard. “Go and tell her Mr Norwood is here.”
“Mr Norwood?” said the girl.
“Yes, Mr Norwood,” exclaimed Richard, angrily; and the girl disappeared, Richard employing himself the while in peering furtively about for observers.
He had turned his back to the area, and was wondering whether the potman, coming down the street, with what appeared to be a gigantic bunch of pewter grapes upon his back, was intent upon his own affairs or watching him, when he started, for a shrill “I say!” ascended from the area, and looking round, he found the diminutive maid presenting him with his card, which was stuck amongst the hairs of a long broom, whose handle enabled the child to elevate the piece of pasteboard to within its owner’s reach.
“I thought I could do it,” said the girl, laughing.
“Go—and—tell—your—mistress—Mister—Norwood—wants—her,” hissed Richard Pellet, savagely; as, with one action, he seized the card, and shook his fist at the girl.
“Hadn’t you better call again,” said the imp, “and leave the paper? She never pays fust time, and you ain’t been before.”