In a little more than five minutes Mrs. Shackleton, the housekeeper, in her thick brown silk, knocked sharply at the door.
"Come in," called Richard Marston's voice.
"I can't, sir."
"Can't? Why? What's the matter?"
"You've bolted it, please, on the inside," she answered, very tartly.
"I? I haven't bolted it," Richard Marston answered, with a quiet laugh. "Try again."
She did, a little fiercely; but the door opened, and disclosed Richard Marston sitting in his uncle's easy chair, with one of the newspapers he had bought in his railway carriage expanded on his knees. He looked up carelessly.
"Well, Mrs. Shackleton, what's the row?"
"No row, sir, please," she answered, sharply rustling into the room, and looking round. She didn't like him. "But the door was bolted, I assure you, sir, only a minute before, when I tried it first; and my master, Sir Harry, told me no one was to be allowed into this room while he's away."
"So I should have thought; his letters lying about—but I found the door open, and the key in the lock—here it is; so I thought it safer to take it out."