“What the devil is their name?”
“Kennedy,” I hissed at him—“Cassius P. Kennedy. Came originally from Necropolis City, Ohio; lived in Chicago as a clerk in the Colonial Box, Tub, and Cordage Company, and then was made manager of the London branch. Their weak point is society. If any people are there, keep your mouth shut. Be dense and unresponsive.”
We heard the rattle of the pursuing hansom at the end of the street, then through the ground glass of the door saw a man servant’s approaching figure.
“Only stay a few minutes over the coffee. We’re going on to the opera,” I whispered, as the door opened.
I swept in, Tom on my heels. We came as fast as we could without actually falling in and dashing the servant aside, for the noise of our pursuer was loud in our ears, and we knew we were lost if we were seen entering. As Tom somewhat hastily shut the door, I was conscious of the expression of surprise on the face of the solemn butler. He did not say anything, but looked it. I slid out of my cloak, and handed it, languidly, to him.
“No, I won’t go up-stairs,” I said, in answer to his glare of growing amaze.
Then I turned to the glass in the hat-rack, and began to arrange my hair. I could see, reflected in it, a pair of portières, half open, and affording a glimpse of a room beyond, bathed in the subdued rosy light of lamps. I was conscious of movement there behind the portières—a stir of skirts, a sort of hush of curiosity.
There had been the sound of voices when we came in. Now I noticed the stealthy, occasional sibilant of a whisper. There was no dinner-party. We were going to dine en famille. So much the better. My hair neat, I turned to the butler, and, touching the jet of my corsage with an arranging hand, murmured:
“Major and Mrs. Thatcher.”
The man drew back the curtain, and, with our name going before us in loud announcement, I rustled into the room, Tom behind me.