The fight between the Boxalls and the Fanshawes of Society is a pretty equal encounter, even though the Fanshawes are fairly well provided with earthly goods.
As Mr Boxall was finishing his lonely tea, a knock came to the door, followed by a voice through the keyhole.
“Misther Boxall,” said the voice, “are yiz there? The young lady’s wishful to see you; be on the laan in front of the house be half-past tin o’clock, sharp.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr Boxall. “Who is there—what’s that’s you say?”
No answer.
“Who is there?”
No answer.
Mr Boxall went to the door, opened it cautiously two inches or so and peeped out; there was no one visible. He opened it fully and put his head out: the corridor was empty. Then he closed the door, and pacing his room ruminated over the message he had just received.
The only young lady in the house was Violet Lestrange; that the message referred to her he could not doubt, that the message had come to him from the lips of a servant was undeniable. The sex of the servant he could not tell, for the voice was muted, yet it sounded female.
If you were to imagine that the message gave him any thrill, or caused him any pleasurable excitement, you would be vastly mistaken.