Mr. Checkynshaw rushed up stairs, and rushed into the apartment where André was curling the hair of a pale, but rather pretty young lady of twelve. His abrupt appearance and his violent movements startled the nervous miss, so that, in turning her head suddenly, she brought one of her ears into contact with the hot curling-tongs with which the barber was operating upon her flowing locks.
"O, dear! Mercy! You have killed me, André!" screamed Elinora, as her father bolted into the room.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Checkynshaw," pleaded André.
"You have burned me to death! How you frightened me, pa!" gasped the young lady.
"Mind what you are about, André!" exclaimed the banker, sternly, as he examined the ear, which was not badly damaged.
"The young lady moved her head suddenly. It was really not my fault, sir," added André.
"Yes, it was your fault, André," replied Elinora, petulantly. "You mean to burn me to death."
"I assure you, mademoiselle—"
"Where do you live, André?" demanded the banker, interrupting him.
"Phillimore Court, No. 3," replied the barber.