"With Wilkinson, my dear? Nothing."
"Well, he isn't in the house. I want him, but cook says you've sent him out."
"I? Oh, no," he returned, with dawning uneasiness, looking away from her sceptical gaze.
Suddenly his pupils dilated. A picture from without had painted itself on his retina. It was a picture of Wilkinson—Wilkinson the austere, Wilkinson the unbending—treading the Tenterground gravel, curved beneath a box! Before him strode the Schnorrer.
Never during all his tenure of service in Goodman's Fields had Wilkinson carried anything on his shoulders but his livery. Grobstock would have as soon dreamt of his wife consenting to wear cotton. He rubbed his eyes, but the image persisted.
He clutched at the window curtains to steady himself.
"My Persian curtains!" cried his wife. "What is the matter with you?"
"He must be the Baal Shem himself!" gasped Grobstock unheeding.
"What is it? What are you looking at?"
"N—nothing."