“Come, don’t be a muff, Percy! You and I are old friends—”
“We’re not; we’re enemies!”
“You mean to say,” said Scarfe, with a snarl, “you’re going to throw me up for the sake of a—”
“Don’t say a word about Jeff!” said Percy, white-hot, and springing to his feet; “if you do I’ll have you pitched neck and crop into the street! Hook it! No one asked you here, and you’re not wanted!”
“I came to see your mother,” said Scarfe. “I can’t congratulate you, Percy, on your hospitality, but I can hope you’ll be better next time I come.”
Percy went out after him, and called down the staircase to Walker, “Walker, give Mr Scarfe a glass of wine and some grub before he goes.”
The taunt about hospitality had stung him, and this was how he relieved his conscience on that point.
Scarfe was not the only visitor Percy had. The evening before the travellers were expected home Walker announced that a gentleman had called inquiring for Mr Rimbolt, but hearing he was from home, desired to speak with his son. Percy, ready to clutch at any straw of hope, and jumping at once to the conclusion that the only business on which any one could possibly call at the house was about Jeffreys, told Walker to show the gentleman up.
He was a dark, handsome man, with a few streaks of grey in his hair, and a keen, cold look in his eye which Percy mistrusted.
“We’re old friends, I fancy,” said he, nodding to the boy as he entered. “At least, I fancy I saw you sixteen or seventeen years ago.”