Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and now presented himself in the hall. He was donned in his Sunday garments, with his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding his hat in one hand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean his shoes on the mat.

‘Good-evening, Joseph,’ I said, coldly. ‘What business brings you here to-night?’

‘It’s Maister Linton I mun spake to,’ he answered, waving me disdainfully aside.

‘Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to say, I’m sure he won’t hear it now,’ I continued. ‘You had better sit down in there, and entrust your message to me.’

‘Which is his rahm?’