I came to the houses, straggling at first, but soon contiguous to each other, as they are in most streets. Mr. Gregg's stood alone, its plate on the door. A young man came running out of it as I stood hesitating whether to knock or ring.
"If you please, is Mr. Gregg at home?"
"Yes," answered he. "He is in the office. You can go in if you want him."
Opening an inner door, he showed me into a room where there seemed to be a confused mass of faces. In reality there might have been three or four, but they multiplied themselves to my timid eyes.
"A little girl wants to see Mr. Gregg," said the young man.
A tall gentleman came forward, with a pale face and grey whiskers. He said he was Mr. Gregg, and asked what my business was.
"I want to see you by yourself, if you please, sir."
He led the way to another room, and I took the note out of my glove and gave it him. He read it over—to me it appeared a long one—looked at me, and then read it again.
"Are you Anne Hereford?"
"Yes," I said, wondering how he knew my name. "My aunt, Mrs. Edwin Barley, bade me say she was too ill to write it better, but she hoped you would understand it."