A servant, as he could hear, came forth to open it; but, before that was effected, flying footsteps followed the man across the hall, and he was called, in the voice of Charlotte Pain.
“James,” said she, in a half-whisper, which came distinctly to the ear of George Godolphin, “should that be any one for Mr. Verrall, say nothing, but show him in here.”
A second room, a smaller one, stood between the one George had entered, and the hall. It opened both to the drawing-room and the hall; in fact, it served as a sort of anteroom to the drawing-room. It was into this room that the stranger was shown.
Charlotte, who had taken a seat, and was toying with some embroidery-work, making believe to be busy over it, rose at his entrance, with the prettiest air of surprise imaginable. He could have staked his life, had he been required to do it, that she knew nothing whatever of his approach until that identical moment, when James threw open the door, and announced, “A gentleman, ma’am.” James had been unable to announce him in more definite terms. Upon his asking the stranger for a name, the curt answer had been, “Never mind the name. Mr. Verrall knows me.”
Charlotte rose. And the gentleman’s abruptness changed to courtesy at the sight of her. “I wish to see Mr. Verrall,” he said.
“Mr. Verrall is in town,” replied Charlotte.
“In town!” was the answer, delivered in an accent of excessive surprise. “Do you mean in London, madam?”
“Certainly,” rejoined Charlotte. “In London.”
“But he only left London last night to come here!” was the stranger’s answer.
It brought Charlotte to a pause. Self-possessed as she was, she had to think a moment before hazarding another assertion. “May I inquire how you know that he left London last night for this?” she asked.