"We can but send in our names, however; and, from the great vein of courtesy that runs through his letter, I have no doubt but we shall receive the most gentlemanly reception from him."
A servant in handsome livery appeared at the iron-gates, which opened upon a lawn in the front of Sir Francis Varney's house, and to this domestic Henry Bannerworth handed his card, on which he had written, in pencil, likewise the name of Mr. Marchdale.
"If your master," he said, "is within, we shall be glad to see him."
"Sir Francis is at home, sir," was the reply, "although not very well. If you will be pleased to walk in, I will announce you to him."
Henry and Marchdale followed the man into a handsome enough reception-room, where they were desired to wait while their names were announced.
"Do you know if this gentleman be a baronet," said Henry, "or a knight merely?"
"I really do not; I never saw him in my life, or heard of him before he came into this neighbourhood."
"And I have been too much occupied with the painful occurrences of this hall to know anything of our neighbours. I dare say Mr. Chillingworth, if we had thought to ask him, would have known something concerning him."
"No doubt."
This brief colloquy was put an end to by the servant, who said,—