But the footstep was not Horace’s. Whoever the arrival was, he tapped at the door before entering, and then, without waiting for a reply, walked in.
It was a youth of about seventeen or eighteen, with a bright honest face and cheery smile.
“Is Horace Cruden here?” he inquired eagerly.
“Oh no,” said Booms, in his most doleful accents.
“Isn’t this where he works?”
“It is indeed.”
“Well, then, is anything wrong? Is he ill?”
“No. He is not ill,” said Booms, emphasising the pronoun.
“Is Reginald ill, then, or their mother?”
A ray of hope crossed Booms’s mind. This stranger was evidently a friend of the family. He called the boys by their Christian names, and knew their mother. Would he take charge of the dismal secret?