“Come in,” growled a deep voice.
The cook entered and carefully closed the door behind him. He found himself in a small sitting-room, the only occupant of which was an old man of forbidding aspect sitting in an easy chair with a newspaper open in his hand.
“What do you want?” he demanded, looking up.
“I want to see Mr. Dunn,” said the cook nervously.
“I’m Mr. Dunn,” said the other, waiting.
The cook’s heart sank, for, with the exception of a beard, Mr. Dunn no more resembled the portrait than he did.
“I’m Mr. Dunn,” repeated the old man, regarding him ferociously from beneath his shaggy eyebrows.
The cook smiled, but faintly. He tried to think, but the old man’s gaze sent all the ideas out of his head.
“Oh, are you?” he said at length.
“I heard you were looking for me,” said the old man, gradually raising his voice to a roar. “All the village knows it, I think, and now you’ve found me what the devil is it you want?”