Miss Kingscott, however, was invincible—“she would wait until the lawyer was disengaged,” she said, calmly taking a seat unbidden.
Worse and worse for Sheepskin, who was in an agony of terror as to what to do. In the midst of the excitement enters Mr Trump himself from his inner sanctum, accompanied by Doctor Jolly.
“Bless my soul, Miss Kingscott!” exclaimed the latter; “who would have thought of seeing you here.” But the doctor seemed embarrassed; he did not offer his broad palm to the governess as he would have done in the old days at The Poplars; and his ruddy countenance was suffused with a deeper shade of crimson than was really habitual. Mr Trump advanced, however, to Miss Kingscott, and spoke out curtly in his cold, business voice.
“What do you want here, madam? You have no business with me! and I told my clerks to say I was not in whenever you came here!” glaring round at the solitary embryo sheepskin, who quaked in his shoes; the other grisly clerk, whose hair had the semblance of the fretful porcupine, was not there—probably he was at lunch, and would “return in ten minutes,” as they all say.
Miss Kingscott was not staggered by the lawyer’s facer; she was far too much wrapt up in her purpose to take notice of any rebuff, as she had had many already. She went in straight to her point, gasping with excitement as she spoke.
“He’s found! He’s found!” she exclaimed.
“Who’s found? What do you mean, madam?” said Mr Trump, who, thinking the governess was going to make a dash at him, cautiously retired behind the doctor: the latter uttering his usual, “God bless my soul!” was staring at his quondam flame in astonishment.
“He’s caught at last! Caught at last!” continued the governess hysterically, waving her arms frantically all the while.
“Who’s found? Who’s caught at last? Really, I do not comprehend you, madam; what is it to me whom you find or catch?”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated the doctor, hopelessly bewildered.