"I only say he may have it; having seen neither him nor his smoke these
two days. Never mind; if it annoys you to do this, I'll look in myself
some time to-day."
"You wouldn't get admitted; he keeps his door fastened," returned Gum.
"The only way to get at him is to shout out to him through that glazed
aperture he calls his window."
"Will you do it--or shall I?"
"I'll do it," said the clerk; "and tell you if your services are wanted."
Mr. Hillary walked off at a quick pace. There was a good deal of illness
in Calne at that season, though the fever had not spread.
Whether Clerk Gum kept his word, or whether he did not, certain it was
that Mr. Hillary heard nothing from him that day. In the evening the
clerk was sitting in his office in a thoughtful mood, busy over some
accounts connected with an insurance company for which he was agent, when
he heard a quick sharp knock at the front-door.
"I wonder if it's Hillary?" he muttered, as he took the candle and rose
to open it.
Instead of the surgeon, there entered a lady, with much energy. It was
the _bete noire_ of Clerk Gum's life, Mrs. Jones.
"What's the house shut up for at this early hour?" she began. "The door
locked, the shutters up, and the blinds down, just as if everybody was
dead or asleep. Where's Nance?"
"She's out," said the clerk. "I suppose she shut up before she went, and
I've been in my office all the afternoon.
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