It was a double one; not the violent repeat of the postman, but the rat-tat-tat given either by a gentleman or lady—from its gentleness more like the latter.
“Who can it be?” asked Swinton, taking the pipe from between his teeth. “Nobody for us, I hope.”
In London, Mr Swinton did not long for unexpected visitors. He had too many “kites” abroad, to relish the ring of the doorbell, or the more startling summons of the knocker.
“Can’t be for us,” said his wife, in a tone of mock confidence. “There’s no one likely to be calling; unless some of your old friends have seen you as you came home. Did you meet any one on the way?”
“No, nobody saw me,” gruffly returned the husband.
“There’s a family upstairs—in the drawing-rooms. I suppose it’s for them, or the people of the house.”
The supposition was contradicted by a dialogue heard outside in the hall. It was as follows:
“Mrs Swinton at home?”
The inquiry was in a man’s voice, who appeared to have passed in from the steps.
“Yis, sirr!” was the reply of the Irish janitress, who had answered the knock.