He stamped up and down the room again till there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he cried, and a groom entered.
“Please, sir, master’s compliments, and—and—I beg your pardon, sir, he’d be much obliged if you wouldn’t stamp up and down the room so. He’s got a bad headache, and you’re just over him.”
“Was that the message your master sent?” exclaimed Melton, for the groom was the servant of an acquaintance who had chambers on the floor below.
“Well, sir—no, sir—not exactly, sir,” said the man, suppressing an inclination to smile.
“What did he say then?”
“Please, sir, he said, ‘Run up and ask Mr Melton if he’s going mad,’ and he shied one of his boots at me.”
“Tell him yes, raving mad,” said Melton savagely; and the man went down.
“It’s fate, I suppose,” he said at last: “and it seems as if I am to give her up.”
For from that fatal day when the toy terrier had been slain Joby had stood in the same category as his master—Lady Maude was not at home to the canine caller, and after many efforts to obtain access to his mistress, Charley Melton was nearly in despair.