"No--they don't really," he answered. "I had, however, a slight
preference for knowing whether you would or not. You flatter me
by intimating that you would not."
He knew that if he had held out an arm she would have fallen upon
his breast and wept there, but he was not at the moment in the mood
to hold out an arm. He merely touched hers with a light pressure.
"Let us sit down and talk it over," he suggested.
A hansom drove up to the door and stopped before he had time to
seat himself. Hearing it he went to the window and saw a stout
businesslike looking man get out, accompanied by an attendant.
There followed a loud, authoritative ringing of the bell and an
equally authoritative rap of the knocker. This repeated itself.
Feather, who had run to the window and caught sight of the stout
man, clutched his sleeve.
"It's the agent we took the house from. We always said we were
out. It's either Carson or Bayle. I don't know which."
Coombe walked toward the staircase.
"You can't open the door!" she shrilled.
"He has doubtless come prepared to open it himself." he answered
and proceeded at leisure down the narrow stairway.
The caller had come prepared. By the time Coombe stood in the hall
a latchkey was put in the keyhole and, being turned, the door
opened to let in Carson--or Bayle--who entered with an air of
angered determination, followed by his young man.
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