“Not at home.”
Another two days, and another call. The same answer.
“Not at home.”
Charley Melton turned away with his brow knit, and then thought over the past, and determined that, come what might, he would not be beaten.
The next day he went again, with his dog trotting closely at his heels. He knocked; the door was opened by Robbins the butler, and to the usual inquiry, that individual responded as before—
“Not at home, sir.”
As Melton left his card and turned to go away, Joby quietly walked in, crossed the hall, and went upstairs, while his master, who was biting his lips, turned sharply back and slipped half a sovereign into the butler’s hand.
“Look here, Robbins,” he said; “you may trust me; what does this mean?”
The butler glanced behind him, and let the door swing nearly to as he stood upon the step.
“Fact is, sir, her ladyship said they was never to be at home to you.”