'I think not; I did not see him. That--lady--who was there yesterday, came again. She asked for you.'

A pause. Then Mr. Hunter spoke up sharply. 'For my brother, you mean.

She must have wanted him.'

'She certainly asked for you, sir. For Mr. Lewis Hunter.'

Those little ears p.r.i.c.ked themselves up, and their owner unceremoniously wheeled herself round on her stool, holding on by Austin's knee, as she faced her father.

'There was a lady came to John Baxendale's rooms to-day, when I and Dobson were there, and she asked for Mr. Lewis Hunter. At least--it was the funniest thing, papa--she saw Uncle Henry talking to John Baxendale, and she came up and said he was Mr. Lewis, and asked where he lived.

John Baxendale said it was Mr. Henry Hunter, and she said no, it was not Mr. Henry Hunter, it was Mr. Lewis. So then we found out that she had mistaken him for you, and that it was you she wanted. Who was she, papa?'

'She--she--her business was with Henry,' spoke Mr. Hunter, in so confused, so startled a sort of tone, not as if answering the child, more as if defending himself to any who might be around, that Austin looked up involuntarily. His face had grown lowering and angry, and he moved his position, so that his wife's gaze should not fall upon it.

Austin's did, though.

At that moment there was heard a knock and ring at the house door, the presumable announcement of a visitor. Florence, much addicted to acting upon natural impulse, and thereby getting into constant hot water with her governess, who a.s.sured her nothing could be more unbefitting a young lady, quitted her stool and flew to the window. By dint of flattening her nose and crushing her curls against a corner of one of its panes, she contrived to obtain a partial view of the visitor.

'Oh dear! I hoped it was Uncle Bevary. Mamma's always better when he comes; he tells her she is not so ill as she fancies. Papa!'

'What?' cried Mr. Hunter, quickly.

'I do believe it is that same lady who came to John Baxendale's. She is as tall as a house.'

What possessed Mr. Hunter? He started up; he sprung half way across the room, hesitated there, and glided back again. Glided stealthily as it were; and stealthily touching Austin Clay, motioned him to follow him.

His hands were trembling; and the dark frown, full of embarra.s.sment, was still upon his features. Mrs. Hunter noticed nothing unusual; the apartment was shaded in twilight, and she sat with her head turned to the fire.

'Go to that woman, Clay!' came forth in a whisper from Mr. Hunter's compressed lips, as he drew Austin outside the room. 'I cannot see her.

_You_ go.'

'What am I to say?' questioned Austin, feeling surprised and bewildered.

'Anything; anything. Only keep her from me.'

He turned back into the room as he spoke, and closed the door softly, for Miss Gwinn was already in the hall. The servant had said his master was at home, and was conducting her to the room where his master and mistress sat, supposing it was some friend come to pay an hour's visit.

Austin thought he heard Mr. Hunter slip the bolt of the dining-room, as he walked forward to receive Miss Gwinn.

Austin's words were quick and sharp, arresting the servant's footsteps.

'Not there, Mark! Miss Gwinn,' he courteously added, presenting himself before her, 'Mr. Hunter is unable to see you this evening.'

'Who gave _you_ authority to interfere, Austin Clay?' was the response, not spoken in a raving, angry tone, but in one of cold, concentrated determination. 'I demand an interview with Lewis Hunter. That he is at home, I know, for I saw him through the window, in the reflection of the firelight, as I stood on the steps; and here I will remain until I obtain speech of him, be it until to-morrow morning, be it until days to come. Do you note my words, meddling boy? I _demand_ the interview; I do not crave it: he best knows by what right.'

She sat deliberately down on one of the hall chairs. Austin, desperately at a loss what to do, and seeing no means of getting rid of her save by forcible expulsion, knocked gently at the room door again. Mr. Hunter drew it cautiously open to admit him; then slipped the bolt, entwined his arm within Austin's, and drew him to the window. Mrs. Hunter's attention was absorbed by Florence, who was chattering to her.

'She has taken a seat in the hall, sir,' he whispered. 'She says she will remain there until she sees you, though she should have to wait until the morning. I am sure she means it: stop there, she will. She says she demands the interview as a right.'

'No,' said Mr. Hunter, 'she possesses no _right_. But--perhaps I had better see her, and get it over: otherwise she may make a disturbance.

Tell Mark to show her into the drawing-room, Clay; and you stay here and talk to Mrs. Hunter.'

'What is the matter, that you are whispering? Does any one want you?'

interrupted Mrs. Hunter, whose attention was at length attracted.

'I am telling Clay that people have no right to come to my private house on business matters,' was the reply given by Mr. Hunter. 'However, as the person is here, I must see her, I suppose. Do not let us be interrupted, Louisa.'

'But what does she want?--it was a lady, Florence said. Who is she?'

reiterated Mrs. Hunter.

'It is a matter of business of Henry's. She ought to have gone to him.'

Mr. Hunter looked at his wife and at Austin as he spoke. The latter was leaving the room to do his bidding, and Miss Gwinn suffered herself to be conducted quietly to the drawing-room.

A full hour did the interview last. The voices seemed occasionally to be raised in anger, so that the sound penetrated to their ears downstairs, from the room overhead. Mrs. Hunter grew impatient; the tea waited on the table, and she wanted it. At length they were heard to descend, and to cross the hall.

'James is showing her out himself,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'Will you tell him we are waiting tea, Mr. Clay?'

Austin stepped into the hall, and started when he caught sight of the face of Mr. Hunter. He was turning back from closing the door on Miss Gwinn, and the bright rays of the hall-lamp fell full upon his countenance. It was of ghastly whiteness; its expression one living aspect of terror, of dread. He staggered, rather than walked, to a chair, and sank into it. Austin hastened to him.

'Oh, sir, what is it? You are ill?'

The strong man, the proud master, calm hitherto in his native self-respect, was for the moment overcome. He leaned his forehead upon Austin's arm, hiding its pallor, and put up his finger for silence.

'I have had a stab, Clay,' he whispered. 'Bear with me, lad, for a minute. I have had a cruel stab.'

Austin really did not know whether to take the words literally. 'A stab?' he hesitatingly repeated.

'Ay; here,' touching his heart. 'I wish I was dead, Clay. I wish I had died years ago; or that _she_ had. Why was she permitted to live?--to live to work me this awful wrong?' he dreamily wailed. 'An awful wrong to me and mine!'

'What is it?' spoke Austin, upon impulse. 'A wrong? Who has done it?'

'She has. The woman now gone out. She has done it all.'

He rose, and appeared to be looking for his hat. 'Mrs. Hunter is waiting tea, sir,' said the amazed Austin.

'Tea!' repeated Mr. Hunter, as if his brain were bewildered; 'I cannot go in again to-night; I cannot see them. Make some excuse for me, Clay--anything. _Why_ did that woman work me this crying wrong?'

He took his hat, opened the hall door, and shut it after him with a bang, leaving Austin in wondering consternation.

He returned to the dining-room, and said Mr. Hunter had been obliged to go out on business; he did not know what else to say. Florence was sent to bed after tea, but Austin sat a short while longer with Mrs. Hunter.

Something led back to the previous conversation, when Mrs. Hunter had been alluding to her state of health, and to some sorrow that was her daily portion.

'What is it?' said Austin, in his impulsive manner.

'The thought that I shall have to leave Florence without a mother.'

'Dear Mrs. Hunter, surely it is not so serious as that! You may get better.'

'Yes; I know I may. Dr. Bevary tells me that I shall. But, you see, the very fear of it is hard to bear. Sometimes I think G.o.d is reconciling me to it by slow degrees.'

Later in the evening, as Austin was going home, he pa.s.sed a piece of clear ground, to be let for building purposes, at the end of the square.

There, in its darkest corner, far back from the road, paced a man as if in some mental agony, his hat carried in his hands, and his head bared to the winds. Austin peered through the night with his quick sight, and recognised Mr. Hunter.