“Now,” he said angrily, “no more of this insolence, sir; take or send my card in to Miss Clareborough.”
“I say, look here,” cried the the butler, whose face grew ruddy and then white, “haven’t I told you she isn’t at home?”
“Yes, more than once, my good fellow, and I tell you now that she is, and that I will not stir from here until I have seen her.”
“Then look here, sir,” cried the butler; “I shall send for the police.”
“Do—at once,” retorted Chester.
The butler’s jaw dropped in his astonishment, but he recovered himself, closed the door, and took a few steps further into the hall, Chester following.
“Come, none of that,” cried the man. “You’ll stop there, and—”
“What’s the meaning of this, Mr Roach?” said a familiar voice, and Chester eagerly pressed forward.
“Ah, the housekeeper,” he cried quickly. “This man has refused again and again to bear my card to Miss Marion. Will you have the goodness to take it to her, and say that I beg she will see me for a few minutes at once?”
The old lady’s white forehead puckered up beneath her grey hair, as she looked in a startled way at the speaker, and then turned to the butler, who was holding Chester’s card between his first and second fingers.