But before we could make any move, Tibbie Muir came into the room, looking very disapproving and sour of face, and presented Madrasia with another card. She became voluble.
“I’ve told him, and I’ve better told him, that the master’s not at home,” she declared, “but he’ll not take my word nor go away, and you must just deal with him yourself, Miss Madrasia. And if there’s going to be this coming and going at the door all day long——”
Madrasia glanced at the card and passed it over to me. It was a printed card, and the lettering was meant to be impressive.
Mr. Augustus Weech.
Newcastle Evening Planet.
“Well?” demanded Madrasia.
“I think I should see this gentleman,” said I.
“Bring him up, Tibbie,” commanded Madrasia. “Perhaps he’ll be the last. What can he want?” she went on, turning to me as Tibbie grumblingly departed. “A reporter?”
“Newspaper chap of some sort, evidently,” I said. “And wanting news! But how does he come to know where to apply for news? And what news?”
“We’re only getting more and more fog-bound,” she remarked. “Wait till we hear what he’s got to say; perhaps he has some news for us. He’s here!”
A sharp-eyed, alert, knowing-looking young person entered the room and made his bow. He was smartly dressed, evidently quite at his ease, and full of vitality. And his first proceeding was remarkable. As he straightened himself after doing obeisance to Madrasia his eyes fell on the copper box, and without preface he pointed a long, slender forefinger at it.