“I don’t know, my dear boy. She is a mystery to me. I tried to talk to her several times when I was near, but she closed my lips at once. I am nobody now. I can pretty well manage her father, but—who in the world can this be?” she cried hastily. “I’m not at home.”
She rose to ring the bell, but there were steps already on the stairs, and the servant, looking a little startled, opened the door.
“Mr Stratton, ma’am. He says—”
Stratton was already at the door, looking pale, but with a red spot burning in each cheek.
“You here, Guest!” he said excitedly. “Miss Jerrold, pray ask your niece to see me, if only for a minute.”
“My niece, Mr Stratton,” said the old lady coldly, “is in Paris.”
“No, no,” he cried. “They reached Charing Cross not half an hour ago.”
“Stratton, old man,” whispered Guest, “for goodness sake, contain yourself. Indeed they are not here.”
“Hah!” cried Stratton excitedly as a cab drew up to the door; and he grasped how he had, in his excitement, outstripped with a fast hansom the slow four-wheeled cab; and without giving aunt or friend another thought he dashed downstairs and out to the cab door.
Myra was looking eagerly up at the house as the front door opened, and Edie heard her give a hoarse gasp as she shrank back into the corner of the seat with her face convulsed by a spasm at the unexpected sight of Stratton.