John Mundell gave a deep groan, and the tailor brushed past Todd to place the clothes upon a side table. As he returned he caught sight of Todd's face, and in an instant his face lighting up, he cried—
"Ah! how do? How do?"
"Eh!" said Todd.
"How did the Pompadour coloured coat and the velvet smalls do, eh?—Fit well? Lord, what a rum start for a barber to have a suit of clothes fit for a duke."
"Duke!" cried Mundell.
Todd lifted one of his huge feet and gave the "artist" a kick that sent him sprawling to the door of the room.
"That," he said, "will teach you to make game of a poor man with a large family, you scoundrel. What, you won't go, won't you? The—"
The artist shot out at the door like lightning, and flew down the stairs as though the devil himself was at his heels. Todd carefully closed the door again, and fastened it by a little bolt that was upon it. A strange expression was upon the countenance of John Mundell. His face looked perfectly convulsed, and he slowly rose from his chair. Todd placed one of his huge hands upon his breast and pushed him back again.
"What's the matter?" said Todd.
"He—he—knows you."