“Eh? What? I’m a trifle deaf,” he said.
I repeated my question more distinctly.
“Is Mr Rutherford within?”
“And what may you want with him?”
“My name is Rosamund Lindley. I am his relative. I want to see him.”
“Eh, my dear,” said the old man; “Geoffrey Rutherford has many relatives, many, and they all want to see him. It’s wonderful how he’s appreciated! Quite extraordinary, for he does nothing to deserve it. I’ll inquire if you can be admitted, Miss—Miss Lindley.”
The old man shambled away. He was so inhospitable that he absolutely left the chain on the door.
He was absent for nearly ten minutes. I thought he had forgotten all about me, and was about to knock again, when he reappeared. Without saying a word he removed the chain from the hall-door and flung it wide open.
He was about the shabbiest-looking servant I ever saw.
“Come this way,” he said, when I had stepped into the hall.