“See who it is, Fan,” he said in a hurried whisper. “Step outside; and whoever it is, don’t let them look in.”
Fan, still in her disguise of valet, glided to the door, opened it, and looked out.
“A waiter, I suppose, bringing my boots or shaving-water?”
This was Mr Swinton’s reflection.
It was a waiter, but not with either of the articles named. Instead, he was the bearer of an epistle.
It was delivered to Fan, who stood in the passage, keeping the door closed behind her. She saw that it was addressed to her husband. It bore no postmark, and appeared but recently written.
“Who sent it?” was her inquiry, couched in a careless tone.
“What’s that to you, cock-sparrow?” was the rejoinder of the hotel-servant; inclined toward chaffing the servitor of the English gentleman—in his American eyes, tainted with flunkeyism.
“Oh, nothing!” modestly answered Frank.
“If you must know,” said the other, apparently mollified, “it’s from a gentleman who came by this morning’s boat—a big, black fellow, six feet high, with moustaches at least six inches long. I guess your master will know all about him. Anyhow, that’s all I know.”