“A veesiter, sir,” said old Agnes (my landlady), “an’ he’ll no gie his name.”
Old Agnes, I may remark, is a Scotchwoman.
“Show him in,” said I.
“Maybe he’s a pickpocket,” suggested Agnes.
“I’ll take my chance of that.”
“Ay! that’s like ’ee. Cares for naethin’. Losh, man, what if he cuts yer throat?”
“I’ll take my chance of that too; only do show him in, my good woman,” said I, with a gesture of impatience that caused the excellent (though obstinate) old creature to depart, grumbling.
In another moment a quick step was heard on the stair, and a stranger burst into the room, shut the door in my landlady’s face as she followed him, and locked it.
I was naturally surprised, though not alarmed, by the abrupt and eccentric conduct of my visitor, who did not condescend to take off his hat, but stood with his arms folded on his breast, gazing at me and breathing hard.
“You are agitated, sir; pray be seated,” said I, pointing to a chair.