Mr Hallam has a Visitor.
Mysteries were painful to old Gemp. If any one had propounded a riddle, and gone away without supplying the answer, he would have been terribly aggrieved.
He was still frowning, and trying to get over the mystery of why James Thickens should be at Miss Heathery’s when that lady was out, and his ideas were turning in the direction of the little maid, when a wholesome stimulus was given to his thoughts by the arrival of the London coach, the alighting of whose passengers he had hardly once missed seeing for years.
Hurrying up to the front of the “George,” he was just in time to see a dashing-looking young fellow, who had just alighted from the box-seat, stretching his legs, and beating his boots with a cane. He had been giving orders for his little valise to be carried into the house, and was staring about him in the half-light, when he became aware of the fact that old Gemp was watching him curiously.
He involuntarily turned away; but seeming to master himself, he turned back, and said sharply, “Where does Mr Hallam live?”
“Mr Hallam!” cried Gemp eagerly; “bank’s closed hours ago.”
“I didn’t ask for the bank. Where is Mr Hallam’s private residence?”
“Well,” said Gemp, rubbing his hands and laughing unpleasantly, “that’s it—the ‘Little Manor’ as he calls it; but it’s a big place, isn’t it?”
“Oh, he lives there, does he?” said the visitor, glancing curiously at the ivy-covered house across the way.
“Not yet,” said Gemp. “That’s where he is going to live when—”