Presently it ceased, and a knock came to Barret’s door.
“Well, what d’ye want, you noisy scamp?” said Barret, flinging the door open, and revealing the small figure of Willie Willders.
“Please, sir,” said Willie, consulting the back of a note; “are you Mister T–Tom—Tupper, Esquire?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Ain’t there sitch a name in the house?”
“No, not that I know of.”
Willie’s face looked blank.
“Well, I was told he lived here,” he muttered, again consulting the note.
“Here, let me look,” said Barret, taking the note from the boy. “This is Tippet, not Tupper. He lives in the top floor. By the way, Auberly,” said Barret, glancing over his shoulder, “Isn’t Tom Tippet a sort of connection of yours?”
“Yes; a distant one,” said Fred carelessly, “too distant to make it worth while our becoming acquainted. He’s rich and eccentric, I’m told. Assuredly, he must be the latter if he lives in such a hole as this. What are you staring at, boy?”