“I will not. There is no excuse, Myra. A telegram—a messenger—his friend and best man. Nothing done. The man is—no; he is no man. I’ll—my lawyer shall—no; I’ll go myself. He shall see that—Silence! Be firm. Don’t move a muscle. Take my arm when I hand you out, and not a word till we are in the drawing room.”
For the carriage had stopped, after a rapid course, at Sir Mark’s house in Bourne Square, where they had to wait some minutes before, in response to several draggings at the bell, the door was opened by an elderly housemaid.
“Why was not this door answered? Where is Andrews?” thundered the admiral as the footman came in, looking startled, and closed the door behind which the housemaid stood, looking speechless at her master’s unexpected return.
“Shall the carriage wait, Sir Mark?” interposed the footman.
“No! Stop; don’t open that door. I said, why was this door not answered?”
“I’m very sorry, Sir Mark,” faltered the woman, who was trembling visibly. “I was upstairs cleaning myself.”
“Bah! Where is Andrews? Where are the other servants?”
“They all went to the wedding, Sir Mark.”
“Bah!”
“Father—upstairs—I can bear no more,” whispered Myra.