“There’s Mr Leicester, sir, above his’n.”
“Very well, Solomon; call up Mr Dyson, and say I wish to speak with him particularly.”
And so saying, the dean proceeded up-stairs.
The moment Leicester heard his name mentioned, he began to anticipate a domiciliary visit. The thing was so ridiculous that we hardly knew what to do.
“Shall I get into bed, Hawthorne? I don’t want to be caught in this figure.”
“Why, I don’t know that you will be safe there, in the present state of the dean’s suspicions. No; tuck up those confounded petticoats, clap on your pea-jacket, twist those love-locks up under your cap, light this cigar, and sit in your easy-chair. The dean must be ’cuter than usual if he finds you out as the lady he is in search of.”
Leicester had hardly time to take this advice—the best I could hit upon at the moment—when the dean knocked at the door.
“Who are you? Come in,” said we both in a breath.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Leicester,” said the dean in his most official tone; “nothing but actually imperative duty occasions my intrusion at this unseasonable hour, but a most extraordinary circumstance must be my excuse. I saw, gentlemen—I saw with my own eyes,” he continued, looking blacker as he caught sight of me, and remembering, no doubt, the little episode of the stays—“I saw a female figure move in this direction but a few minutes ago. No such person has passed the gate, for I have made inquiry; certainly I have no reason to suppose any such person is concealed here; but I am bound to ask you, sir, on your honour as a gentleman—for I have no wish to make a search—is there any such person concealed in your apartments?”
“On my honour, sir, no one is or has been lately here, but myself and Mr Hawthorne.”