“Because of an unconquerable longing to see,” Average Jones paused, and his quick glance caught the storm signal in her eyes, “your uncle,” he concluded calmly.
For one fleeting instant a dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth. It departed. But departing, it swept the storm before it.
“What do you want to see uncle about, if it isn’t an impertinent question?”
“It is, rather,” returned the young man judicially. “Particularly, as I’m not sure, myself. I may want to quarrel with him.”
“You won’t have the slightest difficulty in that,” the girl assured him.
She rang the bell, dispatched a servant, and presently judge Ackroyd stalked into the room. As Average Jones was being presented, he took comprehensive note and estimate of the broad-cheeked, thin-lipped face; the square shoulders and corded neck, and the lithe and formidable carriage of the man. Judge “Oily” Ackroyd’s greeting of the guest within his gates did not bear out the sobriquet of his public life. It was curt to the verge of harshness.
“What is the market quotation on beetles, judge?” asked the young man, tapping the rug with his stick.
“What are you talking about?” demanded the other, drawing down his heavy brows.
“The black beetle; the humble but brisk haunter of household crevices,” explained Average Jones. “You advertised for ten thousand specimens. I’ve got a few thousand I’d like to dispose of, if the inducements are sufficient.”
“I’m in no mood for joking, young man,” retorted the other, rising.