“That is neither here nor there,” said I, for I was growing very wroth.
“Well,” was the reply, “ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off with ye.”
“I will do no such thing,” I cried. “I will deliver it into Mr. Balfour’s hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of introduction.”
“A what?” cried the voice sharply.
I repeated what I had said.
“Who are ye yourself?” was the next question, after a considerable pause.
“I am not ashamed of my name,” said I. “They call me David Balfour.”
At that I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle on the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a curious change of voice, that the next question followed:
“Is your father dead?”
I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer, but stood staring.