“Their proper owner!” repeated the old man, shrilly; “that is La Masque. Thief-robber-housebreaker—stop!”
“My good old friend, you will do yourself a mischief if you bawl like that. Undoubtedly these things were La Masque's, but they are so no longer, since La Masque herself is among the things that were!”
“You shall not go!” yelled the old man, trembling with rage and anger. “Help! help! help!”
“You noisy old idiot!” cried Sir Norman, losing all patience, “I will throw you out of the window if you keep up such a clamor as this. I tell you La Masque is dead!”
At this ominous announcement, the ghastly porter fell back, and became, if possible, a shade more ghastly than was his wont.
“Dead and buried!” repeated Sir Norman, with gloomy sternness, “and there will be somebody else coming to take possession shortly. How many more servants are there here beside yourself?”
“Only one, sir—my wife Joanna. In mercy's name, sir, do not turn us out in the streets at this dreadful time!”
“Not I! You and your wife Joanna may stagnate here till you blue-mold, for me. But keep the door fast, my good old friend, and admit no strangers, but those who can tell you La Masque is dead!”
With which parting piece of advice Sir Norman left the house, and joined George, who sat like an effigy before the door, in a state of great mental wrath, and who accosted him rather suddenly the moment he made his appearance.
“I tell you what, Sir Norman Kingsley, if you have many more morning calls to make, I shall beg leave to take my departure. As it is, I know we are behind time, and his ma—the count, I mean, is not one who it accustomed or inclined to be kept waiting.”