"My dear," said Newberry, "Mr.—er—what's his name?—oh, ah: Stainton;—yes—Mr. Stainton appears to be a man of means. Concerning the rich nothing except good."
"But his card, Preston; his card!"
"What's the matter with his card?"
"He has sent it up—here—at this time of day!"
"Hum. Western eccentricity, I suppose. He'll get over all that sort of thing in time."
Ethel was hopping heavily from one slippered foot to the other.
"He hasn't merely left it," she distractedly explained. "He's here—he's actually in the house."
"Well, he's not a burglar, Ethel."
"Don't talk so, Preston. I know he's not a burglar. But what does he want here at this hour?"
"I suppose he wants to see you."