"H'm! All right Liston!" Thorndyke says, hastily, and with a warning glance. "My uncle has sent you to hunt me up as usual, I suppose."
"As usual, Mr. Laurence. He commands your immediate presence in New York."
Again the color mounts to the young man's face, again his eyes flash angry fire.
"Do you mean to say, Liston, that you or that d—— snivelling hypocrite, Maggs—"
"Mr. Thorndyke," says Mr. Liston, interrupting for the third time, and raising his voice slightly, "I have a word to say to you in private—if the young lady will excuse you."
He bows in a sidelong sort of way to Norine, and watches her furtively beneath his drooping eyelids. She is standing very still, her eyes on one of the letters—a square, perfumed, rose-colored letter superscribed in a lady's delicate tracery, and bearing the monogram "H. H." Thorndyke thrusts both abruptly into his pocket, and draws her aside.
"Go back to the house, Norine," he says hastily. "I must hear what this fellow has to say. He's secretary—confidential clerk, valet, factotum generally, to my uncle. And I wish the devil had him before he ever found me out here!"
She obeys passively, very pale, still.
"That———snivelling hypocrite, Maggs!" she is repeating inwardly. "What a dreadful way to speak of a clergyman!"
Mr. Thorndyke rejoins Mr. Liston, a scowl on his face, his brows lowering and angry.