‘Sewis! you’re the man, are you:  where has it broken out?’

‘No, sir; no fire,’ said Sewis; ‘you be cool, sir.’

’Cool, sir! confound it, Sewis, haven’t I heard a whole town of steeples at work?  I don’t sleep so thick but I can hear, you dog!  Fellow comes here, gives me a start, tells me to be cool; what the deuce! nobody hurt, then? all right!’

The squire had fallen back on his pillow and was relapsing to sleep.

Sewis spoke impressively:  ’There’s a gentleman downstairs; a gentleman downstairs, sir.  He has come rather late.’

‘Gentleman downstairs come rather late.’  The squire recapitulated the intelligence to possess it thoroughly.  ’Rather late, eh?  Oh!  Shove him into a bed, and give him hot brandy and water, and be hanged to him!’

Sewis had the office of tempering a severely distasteful announcement to the squire.

He resumed:  ’The gentleman doesn’t talk of staying.  That is not his business.  It ‘s rather late for him to arrive.’

‘Rather late!’ roared the squire.  ‘Why, what’s it o’clock?’

Reaching a hand to the watch over his head, he caught sight of the unearthly hour.  ’A quarter to two?  Gentleman downstairs?  Can’t be that infernal apothecary who broke ’s engagement to dine with me last night?  By George, if it is I’ll souse him; I’ll drench him from head to heel as though the rascal ’d been drawn through the duck-pond.  Two o’clock in the morning?  Why, the man’s drunk.  Tell him I’m a magistrate, and I’ll commit him, deuce take him; give him fourteen days for a sot; another fourteen for impudence.  I’ve given a month ’fore now.  Comes to me, a Justice of the peace!—­man ’s mad!  Tell him he’s in peril of a lunatic asylum.  And doesn’t talk of staying?  Lift him out o’ the house on the top o’ your boot, Sewis, and say it ’s mine; you ‘ve my leave.’

Sewis withdrew a step from the bedside.  At a safe distance he fronted his master steadily; almost admonishingly.  ’It ‘s Mr. Richmond, sir,’ he said.

‘Mr. . . .’  The squire checked his breath.  That was a name never uttered at the Grange.  ‘The scoundrel?’ he inquired harshly, half in a tone of one assuring himself, and his rigid dropped jaw shut.

The fact had to be denied or affirmed instantly, and Sewis was silent.

Grasping his bedclothes in a lump, the squire cried: 

‘Downstairs? downstairs, Sewis?  You’ve admitted him into my house?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You have!’

‘He is not in the house, sir.’

‘You have!  How did you speak to him, then?’

‘Out of my window, sir.’

‘What place here is the scoundrel soiling now?’

‘He is on the doorstep outside the house.’

‘Outside, is he? and the door’s locked?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let him rot there!’

By this time the midnight visitor’s patience had become exhausted.  A renewal of his clamour for immediate attention fell on the squire’s ear, amazing him to stupefaction at such challengeing insolence.