The butler shook his head. “I—I don’t know, ma’am,” he stammered.
“I believe he is.” Mrs. Dunn’s presence of mind was returning, and with it her courage. Her florid cheeks flamed a more vivid red, and her eyes snapped. “But whether he is or not, he sha’n’t bulldoze me.”
She strode majestically to the door. The visitor was seated in the hall, calmly reading a newspaper. Hat and suit-case were on the floor beside him.
“What do you mean by this?” demanded the lady. “Who are you? If you have any business here, state it at once.”
The man glanced at her, over his spectacles, rose and stood looking down at her. His expression was pleasant, and he was remarkably cool.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, gravely. “I’ll be glad to tell you who I am, if you’d like to have me. I’d have done it before, but I thought there weren’t any use troublin’ you with my affairs. But, just a minute—” he hesitated—“I haven’t made any mistake, have I? I understood your steward—the feller with the brass buttons, to say that Abijah Warren’s children lived here. That’s so, ain’t it? If not, then I am mistaken.”
Mrs. Dunn regarded him with indignation. “You are,” she said coldly. “The family of the late Mr. Rodgers Warren lives here. I presume the slight resemblance in names misled you. Edwards, show the gentleman out.”
“Just one moment more, ma’am. It was Rodgers Warren’s children I was lookin’ for. A. Rodgers Warren he called himself, didn’t he? Yes. Well, the A stood for Abijah; that was his Christian name. And he left two children, Caroline and Stephen? Good! I thought for a jiffy I’d blundered in where I had no business, but it’s all right. You see, ma’am, I’m their uncle from South Denboro, Massachusetts. My name is Elisha Warren.”
Mrs. Dunn gasped. Edwards, peering over her shoulder, breathed heavily.
“You are—their uncle?” repeated the lady.