An anxious frown settled on his
brow and an observer might have remarked the strange, listening
attitude that he affected at times, such as the alert cocking of his
head and an intense squinting of the eyes.
"Now, if my dear Mary could only pop in on us and--" but Mr. Bingle
choked up suddenly and turned his attention to the stirring of the
coals in the stove.
The door-bell pealed again, this time with surprising authority and
decision. Mr. Bingle started as if shot. As he faced the little hall,
his eyes were wide with an incredulous stare of wonder.
"Good God in heaven," he murmured, "can it be possible that--but no!
It cannot be Mary. That would be too wonderful. Watson--Melissa, will
you please see who's--who's there?"
As rigid as a post he stood over the stove, holding the poker in his
hand, his eyes fastened upon the door as Watson sprang to open it. The
cheerful voice of old Dr. Fiddler--the GREAT Dr. Fiddler--came roaring
into the room ahead of its owner.
"By the Lord Harry, it's a cold night--Hello! What's this? Liveried
servants again? Well, upon my soul, I--Ah, there you are, Bingle! How
are you, Force?"
The next instant he was wringing Mr.
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