“Who is she?” I asked, indifferently.
“She didn't give her name, sir.”
“Show her in,” I replied, closing my journal, but repeating its last words to myself.
Again the door opened. I rose from my seat. Did Kate hope to befool me again? No, it was not Kate who entered and said, in a tone of perfect self-possession:
“Are you Mr. d'Haricot?”
She was rather small, she was young—not more than two-and-twenty. She had a very fresh complexion and a pretty, round little face saved from any dolliness by the steadiness of her blue eyes, the firmness of her mouth, and the expression of quiet self-possession. She reminded me of some one, though for the moment I could not think who.
“I am Mr. d'Haricot,” I replied. “And you?”
“I am Aliss Shafthead.”
“Dick's sister!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” she said, with a pleasant glimpse of smile that accentuated the resemblance. “Have you seen him lately?”