“I want to see a Francis Morley,” I repeated, loudly. “I have come here in answer to a letter. The letter gave this as his address. If he isn't here, will you be good enough to tell me where he is? I—”
There was another interruption, an exclamation from the darkness behind Mrs. Briggs and the maid.
“Oh!” said the third voice, with a little catch in it. “Who is it, please? Who is it? What is the person's name?”
Mrs. Briggs scowled at me.
“Wat's your name?” she snapped.
“My name is Knowles. I am an American relative of Mr. Morley's and I'm here in answer to a letter written by Mr. Morley himself.”
There was a moment's silence. Then the third voice said:
“Ask—ask him to come up. Show him up, Mrs. Briggs, if you please.”
Mrs. Briggs grunted and stepped aside. I entered the hall.
“First floor back,” mumbled the landlady. “Straight as you go. You won't need any showin'.”