“For Mr. Clement Searle,” said the butler, staring straight before him and dissociating himself from everything.
“Who gave it to you?”
“Mrs. Horridge, sir.” This personage, I afterwards learned, was our friend the housekeeper.
“Who gave it Mrs. Horridge?”
There was on Tottenham’s part just an infinitesimal pause before replying.
“My dear sir,” broke in Searle, his equilibrium, his ancient ease, completely restored by the crisis, “isn’t that rather my business?”
“What happens in my house is my business, and detestable things seem to be happening.” Our host, it was clear, now so furiously detested them that I was afraid he would snatch the bone of contention without more ceremony. “Bring me that thing!” he cried; on which Tottenham stiffly moved to obey.
“Really this is too much!” broke out my companion, affronted and helpless.
So indeed it struck me, and before Mr. Searle had time to take the note I possessed myself of it. “If you’ve no consideration for your sister let a stranger at least act for her.” And I tore the disputed object into a dozen pieces.
“In the name of decency, what does this horrid business mean?” my companion quavered.