“You don’t understand book talk,” said William, scornfully.
He bowed low to the maiden, who was still playing at trains.
“Rudolph of the Red Hand,” he said slowly, with a sinister smile.
The effect was disappointing. She blew him a kiss.
“Darlin’ Rudolph,” she said.
William stalked majestically across the fields towards the Grange, with one hand inside his coat, in the attitude of Napoleon on the deck of the Bellerophon.
He went slowly up the drive and up the broad stone steps. Then he rang the bell. He rang it with the mighty force with which Rudolph of the Red Hand would have rung it. It pealed frantically in distant regions. An indignant footman opened the door.
“I wish to speak to the master of the house on a life or death matter,” said William importantly.
He had thought out that phrase on the way up.
The footman looked him up and down. He looked him up and down as if he didn’t like him.