Almost at the same moment, Whelks entered the apartment, with a printed card upon a silver salver. It was not an elegant production—the typography was bold and in effect smudgy, and the general get-up smacked rather loudly of the Seven Dials’ press.
It was dingy, too, and nibbled at the corners, indicating cogitation on the part of the person whom it represented, the pasteboard having been used unconsciously instead of the grimy thumb-nail.
The quick eye of Mr. Grahame caught sight of it almost the instant Whelks crossed the threshold of the door, carrying it very much with the air of one who had a huge slug on a plate, which he was seeking the earliest opportunity to dispose of.
Mr. Grahame’s eyes flashed fire. What could the idiot mean by bringing to him such a dun, drabby bit of card at such a moment. He glared at Whelks, who remained unaffected; his gaze was upon the soiled article he carried, and his reflections far away into the future, resting upon the rosy hour when, liberated from flunkeydom, he should, with Sarah the cook, unite hands and savings, and go into business. It was not, he thought, with such “a hinfamous fustian smelling objek” as that which rested on the silver salver, as though it had no business there, that he should make his business announcement to a British public, bursting with a desire to deal with him. And as he dreamed thus, he reached his master.
Mrs. Grahame and Margaret Claverhouse, both with an astonishment and indignation which their indomitable pride could barely repress, saw upon the silver salver, in the hands of Whelks, the offensively dusky, shabby card, and if glances could slay, Whelks’ remains would have been spread over the magnificently “Sang"-decorated walls. Hewas, however, as we have said, all unconscious of the effect he was creating upon the members of the household, and he reached Mr. Gra-hame only to perceive him glowering upon him like a tiger, inflamed with most sanguinary intentions.
With a low, guttural growl, he was about to make known to Whelks the nature of his convictions in having, at such an inopportune moment, thrust upon him so foul a communication, when his eye caught sight of the name—printed, according to the trade term, in fat-faced Egyptian—of Chewkle. He felt as if some one had suddenly smote him on the head with a club, and he broke into a cold sweat.
This man was in possession of his horrid secret; he was in his power; at any time he could blazon forth to the world that a Grahame, the proudest of a proud family, had committed a base act of forgery. He was now amenable to the law of transportation—liable to be torn from his present high position, and compelled to work and toil with thieves and scoundrels in a penal colony.
These reflections, none the less vivid for presenting themselves in that brilliantly lighted room, and in the presence of guests of high birth, made his face grow white, and his knees tremble.
He whipped up the card and thrust it into his pocket, hoping that it had escaped the eyes of all but himself.
Whelks delivered, then, an urgent message from Chewkle, and Mr. Grahame said, in a low tone—