“Are you in the confidence of the writer of
this letter?” asked Mr. Compton, rather confusedly.
“I am not the confidant of the writer,”
answered Kenelm, “but for the time being I am
the protector!”
“Protector!”
“Protector.”
Mr. Compton again eyed the messenger, and this time
fully realizing the gladiatorial development of that
dark stranger’s physical form, he grew many
shades paler, and involuntarily retreated towards the
bell-pull.
After a short pause, he said, “I am requested
to call on the writer. If I do so, may I understand
that the interview will be strictly private?”
“So far as I am concerned, yes: on the
condition that no attempt be made to withdraw the
writer from the house.”
“Certainly not, certainly not; quite the contrary,”
exclaimed Mr. Compton, with genuine animation.
“Say I will call in half an hour.”
“I will give your message,” said Kenelm,
with a polite inclination of his head; “and
pray pardon me if I remind you that I styled myself
the protector of your correspondent, and if the slightest
advantage be taken of that correspondent’s youth
and inexperience or the smallest encouragement be
given to plans of abduction from home and friends,
the stage will lose an ornament and Herbert Compton
vanish from the scene.” With these words
Kenelm left the player standing aghast. Gaining
the street-door, a lad with a band-box ran against
him and was nearly upset.
“Stupid,” cried the lad, “can’t
you see where you are going? Give this to Mrs.
Compton.”
“I should deserve the title you give if I did
for nothing the business for which you are paid,”
replied Kenelm, sententiously, and striding on.
“I HAVE fulfilled my mission,” said Kenelm,
on rejoining his travelling companion. “Mr.
Compton said he would be here in half an hour.”
“You saw him?”
“Of course: I promised to give your letter
into his own hands.”
“Was he alone?”
“No; at supper with his wife.”
“His wife! what do you mean, sir?—wife!
he has no wife.”
“Appearances are deceitful. At least he
was with a lady who called him ‘dear’
and ‘love’ in as spiteful a tone of voice
as if she had been his wife; and as I was coming out
of his street-door a lad who ran against me asked
me to give a band-box to Mrs. Compton.”
The boy turned as white as death, staggered back a
few steps, and dropped into a chair.
A suspicion which during his absence had suggested
itself to Kenelm’s inquiring mind now took strong
confirmation. He approached softly, drew a chair
close to the companion whom fate had forced upon him,
and said in a gentle whisper,—
“This is no boy’s agitation. If you
have been deceived or misled, and I can in any way
advise or aid you, count on me as women under the
circumstances count on men and gentlemen.”
