“When I rang and knocked loudly at the door of the old house, a man servant came, and I was glad of that; for I could not have forced my way past a woman.
“I wish to see Mr. Bulwrag,” I said.
“Never sees any one at this time of day. He has not finished breakfast yet,” answered the man.
“It does not matter. I must see him. I have heard that he is quite well again.”
“Oh, yes, he is well enough;” the man gave a smile, which meant—a great deal better than he deserves to be—“but you must call again in the afternoon.”
“Thank you. I intend to see him now. Show me the room, if you please, my friend.”
“That is the room. But you must not go in.” He offered no resistance, when he saw that it would not stop me; and I knocked at the door, and then entered.
Donovan Bulwrag wore a dressing-gown, braided with gold, and was lighting a cigar, after making (as the dishes showed) a long and goodly breakfast.
“Holloa! Who are you?” His tone was rough and arrogant; but I saw by his eyes that he knew me, and his heavy mouth was twitching. “What the devil do you mean, by coming in like this?”