“Any message, sir?”
He ignored this question, which raised him still higher in the servant’s estimation, and ventured the perfectly accurate opinion:
“He will not be home for some hours, I suppose?”
“No, sir.”
Barney pondered for a while, and suddenly delivered himself of a resolution that did credit to his good sense.
“Then I won’t wait,” he said.
“What name shall I say, sir?” asked the maid.
“Oh, it’s of no importance. I will call again; still, here is my card. I am the son of Mr. Hope, one of the proprietors of the works.”
The maid took the card, and Mrs. Sartwell appeared in the hall, almost as if she had been listening to the words of the speaker, which, of course, she had a perfect right to do, as one generally wishes to know who calls at one’s front door.
“Did I hear you say that you were Mr. Hope?” she asked.