Richard Pellet’s Visitors.
The clerk whose duty it was to show visitors into Richard Pellet’s private office ought to have been well paid, for he must have been a valuable acquisition to his employer. Doubtless it was the result of training—he was for ever supposing that “the firm” was engaged. It was so when Jared last called. It was so when Harry Clayton determined to try and make friends with the husband of his late mother, and appeared at the office door. And it was so when, an hour after, a plainly-dressed, pale-looking woman asked to see Mr Richard Pellet. But if, the clerk said, she would give her name, he would go and see.
“Ellen Pellet,” was the calm, quiet answer.
“Mrs Ellen Pellet?” queried the clerk.
“Yes,” was the reply.
The man stared, hesitated, went half-way to the inner office, returned, hesitated again, and then turned to go; while more than one head was raised from ledger or letter to exchange meaning looks, after a glance at the very unusual kind of visitor to Austin Friars.
“It ain’t my business,” muttered the clerk to himself, and passing down the little passage, he opened the private office door of the firm, heedless of a light, gliding step behind him, and announced Mrs Ellen Pellet.
“Who?” roared Richard Pellet, leaping from his seat, and glaring at the clerk.
“It is I,” said a quiet voice in the doorway, and Richard sank back pale and gasping in his seat.
For the visitor was already in the room.