“You don't mean to tell me it is ten o'clock IN THE FORENOON!” I cried.
“Um-hm. I hated to disturb you. You've been sleepin' like the everlastin' hills and I knew you must be completely wore out. But I felt pretty sartin you'd want to see the—who 'tis that here's to see you, so I decided to wake you up.”
“It is high time you did, I should think! I'll be down in a minute. Who is it that wishes to see me, Dorinda?”
But Dorinda had gone. I dressed hurriedly and descended the stairs to the dining-room. There, seated in a chair by the door, his eyes closed, his chin resting upon his chest, and his aristocratic nose proclaiming the fact that he slumbered, was Johnson, the Colton butler. I was not greatly surprised. I had rather suspected that my caller might be he, or some other messenger from the big house.
He started at the sound of my entrance and awoke.
“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” he stammered. “I—I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure. I've been—I 'aven't closed my eyes for the past two nights, sir, and I am tired out. Mr. Colton wishes to see you at once, sir. He wishes you to come over immediately.”
I was surprised now. “MR. Colton wishes it,” I repeated. “You mean Miss Colton, don't you, Johnson.”
“No, sir. It is Mr. Colton this time, sir. Miss Colton is out in the motor, sir.”
“But Mr. Colton is too ill to see me, or anyone else.”
“No, sir, he isn't. He's very much better. He's quite himself, sir, really. And he is very anxious to see you. On a matter of business, he says.”