There was nothing in this very definite information that afforded Mr. Checkynshaw a grain of comfort. He was excited; but, without telling the barbers what the matter was, he rushed up State Street, up Court Street, up Pemberton Square, to his residence. He wanted a carriage; but of course there was no carriage within hailing distance, just because he happened to want one. He reached his home out of breath; but then his key to the night-latch would not fit, just because he was excited and in a hurry.
He rang the bell furiously. Lawrence, the man servant, was eating his dinner, and he stopped to finish his pudding. The banker rang again; but Lawrence, concluding the person at the door was a pedler, with needles or a new invention to sell, finished the pudding—pedlers ring with so much more unction than other people. The banker rang again. Fortunately for the banker, more fortunately for himself, Lawrence had completely disposed of the pudding, and went to the door.
"What are you about, you blockhead? Why don't you open the door when I ring?" stormed the banker.
"I think the bell must be out of order, sir," pleaded Lawrence, who had heard it every time it rang.
"Go and get a carriage, quick! If you are gone five minutes I'll discharge you!" added the great man, fiercely, as he rushed into the parlor.
"You are late to dinner," said Mrs. Checkynshaw.
"Don't talk to me about dinner! Where is Elinora?"
"Why, what is the matter?" asked the lady, not a little alarmed by the violent manner of the husband.
"Matter enough! Where is Elinora? Answer me, and don't be all day about it!"
"In her dressing-room. André, the hair-dresser, is with her."