Barker the inept, and old Morton Grant fated an intruder at Deep Dale, interrupted, and, so to speak, decided the issue.
“Nothing,” Hugh had replied evasively to his brother’s “What are you looking at?” and had gone to the window, as if to avoid further question. Stephen, unsatisfied, was following him persistently when Barker opened the door and announced, “Mr. Grant.” Helen started to check her, but Stephen with a quick gesture, stayed her, and before she could speak speech was too late. Barker blundered out, and Grant came timidly in.
The old clerk had aged and broken sadly in eight months. Very evidently he was more in awe of Stephen Pryde than at the worst of times he had been of Richard Bransby. He stood awkwardly just inside the room, and fumbled with his hat, and fumbled for words.
“Good—er—good-afternoon, Mr. Pryde. How do you do, Miss Bransby? I trust——”
Stephen interrupted him sharply. “Well, Grant?”
“Er—I—I—am very sorry to intrude on you like this——”
“Yes, yes; but what do you want?” Stephen snapped.
“It’s—it’s about Mr. Hugh, sir.”
Stephen and Helen exchanged a quick look, she all apprehension, he trying to hide his elation, trying to look anxious too. Hugh turned at his name and came toward the others.
“About me? Well, here I am. What about me, Grant?”