Now when Barnabas had read the letter a sudden fit of rage possessed him, and, crumpling the paper in his fist, he dashed it down and set his foot upon it.
"A lie!" he cried, "a foul, cowardly lie!"
"Then you—you didn't buy up the debt, Beverley?"
"No! no!—I couldn't,—Gaunt had sold already, and by heaven I believe the real creditor is—"
"Ha!" cried Smivvle, pointing suddenly, "the door wasn't fastened,
Beverley,—look there!"
Barnabas started, and glancing round, saw that the door was opening very slowly, and inch by inch; then, as they watched its stealthy movement, all at once a shaggy head slid into view, a round head, with a face remarkably hirsute as to eyebrow and whisker, and surmounted by a dingy fur cap.
"'Scuse me, gents!" said the head, speaking hoarsely, and rolling its eyes at them, "name o' Barrymaine,—vich on ye might that be, now?"
"Ha?" cried Mr. Smivvle angrily, "so you're here again, are you!"
"'Scuse me, gents!" said the head, blinking its round eyes at them, "name o' Barrymaine,—no offence,—vich?"
"Come," said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to tug at his whiskers,— "come, get out,—d'ye hear!"