They were opening the hall-door, and Chattaway's face was turning livid. James came into the room.
"A gentleman, sir, is asking to see Mr. Rupert."
"What gentleman?" interposed Miss Diana, before Chattaway could move or look.
"I don't know him, ma'am. He seems strange to the place; has a white beard, and looks foreign."
"He wants Mr. Rupert, did you say?"
"When I opened the door, first, ma'am, he asked if he could see young Squire Trevlyn; so I wanted to know who he meant, and said my master, Mr. Chattaway, was the Squire, and he replied that he meant Master Rupert, the son of Squire Trevlyn's heir, Mr. Joe, who had died abroad. He is waiting, ma'am."
Chattaway turned his white face upon the man. His trembling hands, his stealthy movements, showed his abject terror; even his very voice, which had dropped to a whisper.
"Mr. Rupert's in bed, and can't be seen, James. Go and say so."
Miss Diana had stood in amazement—first, at James's message; secondly, at Mr. Chattaway's strange demeanour. "Why, who is it?" she cried to the servant.
"He didn't give his name, ma'am."