“O, Mr. Forsyth!”
“Don’t be afraid, my dear girl,” said Gideon, laying his hand tenderly on her arm.
“I know it’s the police,” she whispered. “They are coming to complain about the statue.”
The knock was repeated. It was louder than before, and more impatient.
“It’s Morris,” cried Julia, in a startled voice, and she ran to the door and opened it.
It was indeed Morris that stood before them; not the Morris of ordinary days, but a wild-looking fellow, pale and haggard, with bloodshot eyes, and a two-days’ beard upon his chin.
“The barrel!” he cried. “Where’s the barrel that came this morning?” And he stared about the lobby, his eyes, as they fell upon the legs of Hercules, literally goggling in his head. “What is that?” he screamed. “What is that waxwork? Speak, you fool! What is that? And where’s the barrel—the water-butt?”
“No barrel came, Morris,” responded Julia coldly. “This is the only thing that has arrived.”
“This!” shrieked the miserable man. “I never heard of it!”