“No, no,” cried Stratton harshly; “that is a false door.”
“False door?” said the man; “is this?”
He laid his hand upon the other on the left of the fireplace, and opened it.
“All right. Bath room. I’ll go in here.”
As the man shut himself in Stratton reeled as if he would have fallen, but a second rat-tat upon the little brass knocker brought him to himself, and, after a glance at the closet door, he opened that of the entry, and then the outer door, to admit a good looking, fair-haired young fellow of about five-and-twenty, most scrupulously dressed, a creamy rose in his buttonhole, and a look of vexation in his merry face as he stood looking at his white kid gloves.
“I say, old chap,” he cried, “I shall kill your housekeeper. She must have black-leaded that knocker. Morning. How are you. Pretty well ready?”
“Ready?” said Stratton hurriedly. “No, not yet. I’m sure I—”
“Why, hullo, old chap; what’s the matter?”
“Matter? Nothing, nothing.”
“Well, you look precious seedy. White about the gills. Why, hang it, Malcolm, don’t take it like that. Fancy you being nervous. What about? Packed up, I see.”