"Nine," he croaked, and again he stretched and yawned.
A sharp knock sounded at the hall-door of the outer room. Before he could start in response, a second and far louder knock followed.
"H'm—must be a wire," he muttered, and he shuffled quickly over the faded carpet into the front room.
The door shook with a third knocking that sounded like fist blows. Griffith's eyes sharpened with the look of a man who has lived in rough places and scents danger. He turned the night-catch and stepped to one side as he flung the door open. Before him stood a tall young man in an English topcoat. The visitor's curly yellow hair was bare and his handsome face scarlet with embarrassment.
"I—er—I beg your pardon, Mr. Griffith. I—" he stammered.
A big hand swung up on his shoulder, and a deep voice, thick and jocular, cut short his apology. "Thash all ri', Cheems. Wash ri' in. Ish on'y ol' Grishsh. Wash ri' in, I shay."
Propelled by the hand on his shoulder, Lord James entered with a precipitancy that carried him half across the room. Blake followed with solemn deliberation, keeping a hand upon the door casing. Griffith stepped around and shut and bolted the door. Without a second glance at Blake, he shuffled close up to Lord James and demanded in a rasping, metallic voice, "What's the meaning of this, Mr. Scarbridge?"
"Thash all ri', Grish," interposed Blake, "thash all ri'. M'frensh
Chimmy Ear' Albondash. Hish fa'er's Dush Rubby—y' shee?"
Without raising his voice, Griffith gave utterance to a volley of blasphemous expletives that crackled on the air like an electric discharge.
"If you will kindly permit me, sir—"