Tibbie looked in; behind her loomed a large, fur-collar-coated bulk.
"There's a gentleman calls himself Sir Charles—Sir Charles———" began Tibbie.
The bulk came forward, hat in hand.
"Allow me, my good woman," it said unctuously. It looked round in the subdued light of the old coloured-glass windows, and seeing a lady, bowed itself. "Sir Charles Sperrigoe!" it announced. "Ahem! to call on Mr. Parslewe, Mr. James Parslewe."
"Mr. Parslewe is not at home," replied Madrasia. "He is away—on business."
Sir Charles showed his disappointment. But he glanced keenly at Madrasia and bowed again, more politely than ever.
"Perhaps," he said, "I have the honour of seeing Miss Parslewe?"
"No," answered Madrasia. "My name is Durham. I am Mr. Parslewe's ward."
Sir Charles looked at me. I was purposely keeping myself in the shadowy part of the old room; it was darkish there, and I saw that he did not recognise me, though he had certainly set eyes on me at Newcastle and at Wooler.
