At this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was Mrs Twitter that it must be Sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of Number 666.
“I—I—beg your pardon, Mr Scott, I thought that—”
“No harm done, ma’am,” said Giles. “May I come in?”
“Certainly, and most welcome.”
When the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out. But they did not! Probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion.
“You have found him!” exclaimed Mrs Twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in Giles’s calm countenance with tearful eyes.
“Yes, ma’am, I am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him. I have just left him.”
“And does he know you have come here? Is he expecting us?” asked the poor woman breathlessly.
“Oh! dear, no, ma’am, I rather think that if he knew I had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home. Indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me.”
“How d’you know he’s not willing?” demanded Mr Twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for Sammy.